


How to Disappear

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Biomagical Research, F/M, Family Secrets, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, I Promise It's HEA, Lovers to enemies to lovers, Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, ancestry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: As a specialist in obtaining magical art and rooting out forgeries, Hermione Granger is no stranger to rare and complicated forms of magic. But when her eldest child receives his Hogwarts letter, delivered by Head Auror Merrythought and Minister Shacklebolt, a familiar surname where her husband’s should be upends her world.Malfoy. The letter is addressed to Archer Malfoy.
Relationships: Cho Chang/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 452
Kudos: 845





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to a new story! I'm super excited to be sharing this with you all, especially since I've been chipping away at it since April. This fic is thirteen chapters long, of which nine chapters are prewritten, so updates will be consistent weekly. Thank you to my wonderful alphabet—LadyKenz347, niffizzle, mcal, In_Dreams, and Farmulousa—for their work on this fic.

**Chapter 1**

It was only supposed to be temporary.

Draco had told himself that from the very beginning. Get his mother, get out, find a disguise. And he'd done so in exactly that order. The smoke hadn't yet stopped rising from the wound Potter's spell had seared into Voldemort's chest before Draco was careening through the castle, seeking out his mother's distinctive head of hair shot through with blonde.

The plan had called for little else beyond that.

Years had passed since he'd made that decision. His footsteps clicked over cobbles as he made his way down an alley, peering over his shoulder every five steps; it wasn't a foreign notion to him, that someone could be tailing him, and he fell back into the intense caution easily.

He rounded the corner, leaving the dark shadows of the alley for a wide, smoothly paved street on which vendors hawked their wares. He forced his pace slower, feigning interest in the jewellery one woman displayed from little metal trees. The stall beside hers boasted fresh fruit and vegetables, and he paused long enough to purchase a shiny red apple.

"Mrs. Holdsworth, you're looking well today." He forced joviality into his tone, refusing to flick his gaze over his shoulder.

Beaming, the woman swatted away the cash he tried to offer her as she rounded the table. "James Ainsley, you know better than to offer me money for my apples. Take as many as you like, dear."

Her embrace felt like a lie, and he covered his flinch with a laugh. "Thank you, Mrs. Holdsworth. No Jim today?" He backed away even as he asked.

"Not today, no. Poor thing has come down with a cold—at least, he says he has done. Probably enjoying a bit of peace around the house while he watches telly." She winked conspiratorially at him. "Bring that wife of yours 'round the pub this weekend, yeah? We miss seeing Hermione around there!"

Hermione. It seemed he couldn't escape his sins today no matter how hard he tried, but he aimed a brittle smile at the woman, ducking into the crowd and calling, "We'll be around this weekend. Have a good day, Mrs. Holdsworth."

He darted through the rest of the market, keeping his head down and ears vigilant for any indication that he was being followed. He'd become quite skilled at blending into a crowd—after thirteen years, he mused that it had become a talent—but his luck had run out.

They'd found him.

He'd come home from work early to surprise Hermione before her meeting. It was important—she was to meet with a curator from Bibliotheca Alexandrina to secure the loan of a collection of Ayyubid period metalwork—and she'd been nervous all week.

The flowers he'd purchased to surprise her with were still gripped in the fist opposite his uneaten apple.

Hermione Granger. She'd been a surprise of the best nature. The witch had turned his world upside down—he was completely and utterly besotted. And she was, too.

Well, she was besotted by James Ainsley.

She didn't know him as Draco Malfoy. Not the man he'd grown to be. Only as the facade he wore now.

The face he was sure he wouldn't have the luxury of hiding behind much longer.

It'd taken thirteen years, but Kingsley Shacklebolt had found him.

But he rounded another corner, his mother's home coming into view, and relief shot through him. If nothing else, she'd know what to do.

He pounded up the steps, transferring the wilted bouquet into the crook of his arm, and dug frantically in his pocket for his key. With shaking hands, he pressed the key into the slot and turned, letting himself into the foyer with a click.

"Mother?" It wasn't an overly large home, but his voice carried, dulled only by the fine art Hermione had gifted his mother over the years.

"Draco, dear, is that you?" She swept towards him, elegant dress clinging tightly to her curves as she approached. If there was one thing Narcissa cultivated as a Muggle or a witch, it was her appearance, and the familiarity of it soothed Draco's nerves. When she stopped before him, her eyes were pinched with worry. "What is it? I've not been expecting you."

He swallowed around the fear rising in his throat, forcing a harsh hand through his close-cropped locks, a habit he'd been unable to break. "They know—the Ministry, Granger. They all know. Or if Granger doesn't yet, she will soon enough."

Narcissa lost the colouring her borrowed facade held, the golden glow in her skin fading to a white-grey pallour. But she nodded, striding forward to take his hand. "We knew the day would come, my dragon." Even though her voice betrayed no emotion, her grip trembled. "Maybe it's time the Malfoys came out of hiding."

As she squeezed his hand tightly, he slammed his eyes shut, praying for mercy to a Muggle god he didn't believe in.

* * *

"Archer! Elara! Come on, you'll be late!" Hermione's voice grated on her own ears even as she tried to temper the irritation shot through it.

They were to have been at Harry's a half an hour ago so she could make her meeting early, but Elara hadn't been able to find her demiguise toy, resulting in a meltdown that Hermione was ill-equipped to handle when she was already worrying about work.

"Mum, Elara tripped me!" Archer pouted as he rocketed down the hall, shoelace flopping freely as he ran. Elara followed behind him, her face the picture of innocence.

Sighing, Hermione kneeled and grimaced as her pencil skirt dug into her waist. "Elara, love, what have I told you about tripping? You'll both end up hurt, and we don't want that, do we?"

Looking up at her mother bashfully, Elara batted her eyelashes. "No, Mummy."

Beside her, Archer scoffed. "She used _magic_ , Mum. I saw it."

A small spark of pride flared in her chest at her daughter's display, but Hermione affixed a stern frown to her lips. "Magic is not to be used for harm, Elara. Only good." She chucked her daughter under the chin. "Tell Archer you're sorry."

Instantly, a petulant frown tugged at her daughter's lips. "I don't want to."

Merlin help her. "Would you like to go to Hogwarts when you turn eleven?"

Wide-eyed, Elara nodded her head frantically.

"Then you ought to apologise to your brother before I owl Professor McGonagall to let her know we've decided not to send you." It was a dirty trick, and Hermione felt the smallest twinge of guilt at the lie.

But Elara spun, her arms wrapping around Archer in a tight hug. "I'm sorry, Archie." Then, in a whisper, she added, "Please accept my apology so I can go to Hogwarts."

Smothering a laugh, Hermione stood up. "Alright, loves, you have your books, right?"

Both children nodded, turning slightly to show her the book bags strapped across their backs.

"Alright, good. Aunt Cho will be spending time with you today—your Uncle Harry has to work."

Her statement was met with groans and Archer's quiet, "But Uncle Harry lets me ride the _big_ broom."

Shrugging on her coat, she rolled her eyes. "And I'll have to have a talk with Uncle Harry about that. You're not old enough to have a big broom yet."

"But Uncle Harry had a big broom when _he_ was eleven!" Archer cried, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking away from her hand when she reached out to ruffle his wild curls.

Sighing, she stooped to gather her briefcase. "Your Uncle Harry was the exception to most rules. He beat Voldemort; he's allowed a few extra things."

Giggling, Elara stuck her tongue out at Archer. "And _I_ didn't even have to tell Mum about the broom; you ruined it for yourself."

Archer retaliated by digging an elbow into her side. "Oh yeah? Well _I_ get to go to Hogwarts this year while _you_ stay at home with mum and dad or with Aunt Cho." His little grey eyes misted for a second, doubt creeping in. "If I ever get my Hogwarts letter."

Hermione sucked her lip between her teeth, trying not to display the worry that she felt. He should have received it by now, and it had been a source of discussion between her and James quite often in the last few weeks. They were running out of time to purchase supplies, though Hermione had preemptively purchased a cauldron and several of the books she knew remained on the list for first years.

"You'll get it, my love. The owl probably just got lost. Tell you what. If it hasn't arrived by dinner, I'll send Professor McGonagall a personal owl."

A bright smile cracked the mask of worry on her son's face, the veil lifting and showcasing the light grey his irises usually sported—a unique colour, her mediwitch had noted upon delivery. Vestiges of child-like wonder softened the planes of his face, the angles sharpening into manhood far too early for Hermione's liking. "You can do that?"

Propping one hand on her hip and affecting a winning smile, she answered, "Well, I _did_ save the wizarding world _and_ Hogwarts. She owes me a favour."

That sent the children off on a round of excited whispering, and Hermione chuckled as they discussed how cool their mum was.

She ought to have found it cringe-worthy, but she delighted in the adoration of her children. According to most sources, they wouldn't see her that way much longer.

Allowing melancholy to blanket her for a moment, she smiled absently as she buttoned her coat. They had grown so much in the last few years—like she'd somehow blinked and time had skipped forward. She loved her work, but—

Sometimes she regretted how much time it took from her.

But she shook it off, summoning Elara's coat with a snap of her fingers. It whizzed towards her from the closet, landing softly in her hands as she gestured for her daughter to turn. Delighted giggles answered her; she didn't often permit the use of magic in the home—especially not when James was home—but it was worth it sometimes.

To hear their tinkling laughter, there were a lot of things Hermione would do that she might not have found permissible once upon a time.

"Arms up, little miss." Elara complied, sticking her arms straight up above her head. It was a tradition Hermione held dear to her heart, even as her children grew too old for such silliness, but it warmed her through that her daughter still indulged.

She was still tugging Elara's sleeve up when she pulled the door open, a shadow falling over her the only warning she had before two cloaked figures stepped into her path. "Oh, sorry about that," she groused, halting before she ran headlong into them. A hand on her daughter's shoulder stopped Elara, and Hermione glanced up, recognition jolting her. "Kings? What are you doing here?"

The other wizard, arms covered in writhing magical tattoos that instantly gained gushing fascination from her children, stepped forward. "Ms. Granger?"

Forcing Elara's hand down where it had reached for the dragon breathing swirling motes of fire over the man's arm, Hermione drew herself to her full height and pushed her children behind her. "I would imagine that would be rather obvious given how frequently the paparazzi have found the need to plaster my face all over the _Daily Prophet._ Can I _help_ you?" Her testy mood bubbled over into the question.

Contrition flashed over Kingsley's face and he gestured for the Auror at his side to stand down. "You'll have to forgive Auror Merrythought, Miss Granger. He doesn't often interact with the public. Head Auror—you know how they are."

"Pleasure." James would have chastised her for her tone, but she couldn't be arsed to care when she was—she tipped her watch to check—already fifteen minutes behind schedule. "Is this a social call, Kings? As much as I'd love to catch up, I really have—"

Immediately, the man's expression shifted, suspicion colouring it as he glanced over her shoulder into the recesses of the home. "I apologise, Hermione, but it's rather important. I'm afraid you'll have to cancel your plans for the day."

A frisson of anger shot through her, and she drew herself to her full height, thankful that her children had chosen to listen to her direction and remained quietly peering around her. "I'm sorry, Minister, but this meeting is really rather—"

He interrupted her again with an apologetic smile, the formality not lost on him. "Miss Granger, I hate to impose, but I've taken the liberty of notifying your correspondent with Bibliotheca Alexandrina that your meeting will need to be postponed."

Eyes narrowed, she stepped aside, motioning for the men to enter her home. Quickly, she turned, tipping Elara's face up to her own. "Dears, why don't you go play in Archer's room? Your father will be along soon and mummy has business to attend to."

Elara opened her mouth to protest, little lip wobbling as though she'd been punished, but Archer took her other hand, leading her toward his bedroom. "I'll let you ride the broom first, okay?"

Biting her tongue to keep from scolding her children _not_ to ride the broom James had bought them in the house, Hermione pushed upright, thanking Merlin for the small miracle of a well-behaved elder child while shutting the entry door.

The wizards appeared far too large for her home. Their presence seemed to extend beyond their physical bodies, looming over her and filling nooks she hadn't even been aware existed, but she tamped down the foreboding it elicited as she shed her jacket to the coathanger and nestled her briefcase alongside it. "Tea?"

When both men declined, she entered the sitting room, gesturing for them to take seats on either side of the sofa as she took the armchair nearest the fireplace. As she'd learned with Harry and Ron, she allowed silence to settle between them, forcing the men to take the lead.

The Auror cleared his throat, hard face turned towards her while his eyes travelled along the bookshelves that bracketed the fireplace. "I apologise for the interruption, Ms. Granger, and for my lack of manners. Euan Merrythought, Head Auror with the DMLE."

She took his extended hand, shaking it once briskly. For someone who spent more time at his desk than in the field, his hands were rough and calloused. "It's Granger- _Ainsley_. And I've heard of you; Harry Potter is—"

"Your best friend. Yes, I'm aware," Merrythought finished. Whether he noticed the way her lips tightened at yet _another_ interruption, he didn't give away, but he did turn the weight of his full stare on her. If she hadn't been irritated, she might have been fascinated by his visage: one bright, clear blue eye stared back at her, the other milky white and bracketed by scarring. "I'll get straight to the point. Ms. Granger, the Ministry has reason to believe you're harbouring an Undesirable."

 _Undesirable._ It was enough to pull a disbelieving laugh from deep in her stomach, and she only coloured slightly at the flick of Kingsley's brow. "I'm sorry, but you believe that _I'm_ harbouring a fugitive." Scoffing, she made a show of looking around her living room. "Feel free to investigate to your heart's content; the only people who live here are me, my husband, and our two children."

Merrythought seemed to need no further prompting, as he pushed himself upright and immediately crossed to the fireplace beside her. His wand slid out, waving a series of intricate patterns over it. "It's not a Floo."

They really would hire anyone to be Aurors. "A fact of which I'm sure you were already aware." She frowned at Kingsley, who refused to meet her gaze. "I've no need for one. There's an Apparition point down the road."

Running his wand over the baubles lining the mantle, Merrythought said, "Odd for a magical family not to have a Floo."

For the first time, trepidation raced up her spine, and she turned to face him fully. "My husband is a Muggle; my children are not old enough to travel unaccompanied. Their primary mode of transportation is through Side-Along Apparition." She sniffed. "Should we need to visit anywhere that cannot be reached by Apparition, we drive."

"Quite right." Picking up a family photo from the mantle, Merrythought turned to her. "And so you'll have no problem explaining who those in this photo are?"

Against her better judgement, Hermione rocketed upright and snatched the frame from his hand as she whirled to Kingsley. "Minister, what in the name of Merlin is going on here? Why am I being interrogated in my own home?"

Consternation pinching his brows, Kingsley waved Auror Merrythought away, allowing the man to trail through her home with his wand raised. "Miss Granger, I understand that this is confusing, and I sympathise with your frustrations."

"Granger- _Ainsley_ ," she corrected, teeth gritting together. At Kingsley's tight-lipped nod, she allowed some of the anger to fade from her tone. "I'm sorry, Kings, but I fought a war for the Light, helped Harry defeat Voldemort, spent months setting Hogwarts to rights. I don't understand why you would think—"

"We don't believe you were aware of the deception."

That gave her pause, and she lowered herself into her chair, clutching the photo in her hands. "What do you mean?"

Auror Merrythought returned, hovering behind the sofa as he answered her. "Years ago, we received information that a certain missing Death Eater had not perished in the war as was believed. After thorough investigation, we believed the informant to have received flawed information."

She vaguely remembered a news article, just after she'd given birth to Archer, that there were rumours of a resurgence, but she'd written them off as just that—rumours. "And what does this have to do with me?"

Kingsley leaned forward, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Ms. Granger—Granger-Ainsley," he corrected with a grimace. "I understand that this will come as a shock to you, but we've received reliable information that your child is the descendant of one of the missing Death Eaters."

The flame of irritation she'd stoked all day died as though a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over her, chills racing down her spine. "I'm sure there's been a mistake. My husband— he's a Muggle. His mother is a Muggle. I've seen their home, their photos. It's been thirteen _years_. They can't have—"

Merrythought waved his wand, summoning the photo frame dangling limply from her hands. "It's a fair bit of difficult transfiguration magic—the type that only a skilled witch or wizard can perform and maintain."

She couldn't respond, not around the knot that had settled in her throat as she watched another series of complex twists of his wand over the frame. When he stopped, several emotions chased over his face: suspicion, surprise, and, last, grim determination. "I don't…"

When he met her eyes again, sympathy shone in them for the first time and he sent the frame floating back to her, allowing it to settle in her lap. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger."

The cool wood of the frame grounded her as it dug into her palms, but she couldn't bring herself to look at the photo within the glass. "How do you know? How are you _sure_?"

Kinsgley was the one to answer, voice soft as though he didn't want to spook her. "Minerva contacted us, sent us something—" He reached into his robes, withdrawing an envelope. 

A Hogwarts letter.

Elation. That's the first thing that registered: sheer joy that her son would be attending her beloved school. Then dread unfurled in her stomach as Kingsley sent the envelope towards her on a gentle gust of air.

Tracking its approach, Hermione took a deep breath before it settled weightlessly in her lap.

One thing was immediately visible when she dropped her head and peered at it.

Curling across the parchment, a name—one she'd have recognised anywhere—accompanied her son's in Minerva's familiar, elegant scroll, hesitation obvious in the jerky scroll of the initial letter in the surname. Tears burned like acid as they fell down her cheeks.

Malfoy.

The letter was addressed to Archer Malfoy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

At some point, Kingsley had—with Hermione’s express permission—directed Merrythought to deliver the children to Grimmauld place per their previously-arranged play date with Albus and James. Kingsley had Apparated Hermione directly to the Auror office, where a steaming mug had been pressed into her hands. 

Hours later, she yawned, having spent most of the night forcing Kingsley to rehash his conversation with Minerva over and over again between the constant parade of Aurors who rotated in and out of the office on duty.

She pushed herself upright from the plush chairs dotting the opposite side of Merrythought’s desk in favour of leaning back against one of the several bookcases that lined the room. The hard bite of its edge digging into her shoulder blades grounded her.

Taking a bolstering sip of the tea and wincing as the hot liquid scalded her throat, she peered up at Kingsley. “How long?” 

The Minister appeared disgruntled by the question. “A couple months. We needed time to confirm—”

“ _Months_!” She slammed the mug of tea down. Hot liquid sloshed over the edge, splashing book spines and searing her hand. The expletive she loosened brought temporary silence to the bullroom beyond the open door. “And why has no one seen fit to inform me if you’ve known for so long?”

“There were a lot of avenues we needed to explore to ensure the information’s validity,” Kingsley started, taking a sip of his own tea. 

She tried not to dwell on the fact that the cup he sipped from was rather too similar to James’— her husba— 

Draco Malfoy’s cup.

It was a prank. Surely that’s all it could be. She’d seen that Muggle show—what was it, _Punk’d_?—when they’d visited family in the States the previous summer. Maybe James was playing a prank on her. He’d walk through the door any time now with the set of cameras he’d found so fascinating and— 

Flashes of his childlike wonder at common Muggle technology assaulted her, and she drew herself up tight. She’d assumed it part of his charm, an ability to find joy in the mundane.

It was one of myriad reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

Her blood ran cold at the betrayal.

“We could find no direct descendants to the Malfoy line, so their assets were forfeit to the Ministry—which would have likely been the case anyway since they supported the Dark Lord in both wars.” Kingsley spun his cup carefully in his hands, his gaze anywhere but on hers. “I’m sure you’re aware that the Black family kept a meticulous record of the descendants through a tapestry in Grimmauld place?”

Hermione frowned, nodding at his inquiry. “I am, but I’m not sure what the Malfoy family home has to do with it.” Memories of the stately home bubbled up, forcing her hand rigid in its hold on the chair in which she sat. Thirteen years and it still felt like it’d been yesterday.

Understanding fell over his face and he cleared his throat before continuing. “The Malfoy home has a duplicate; it’s our belief that every Black home has one of similar—if not identical—nature. Though Narcissa was the youngest Black daughter, we’ve determined that she was tasked with maintaining the upkeep of the tapestry following Andromeda’s disownment and Bellatrix’s… affliction.” 

Hermione pulled her lip between her teeth, chewing thoughtfully on it. “But if the tapestry works as we deduced when Harry, Ron, and I were hunting for horcruxes”—Kingsley’s brow knit with familiar frustration that he always descended into when confronted with the mission Dumbledore had left the three teenagers—“then why didn’t Harry mention anything? The children’s births would have been reflected on the tapestry.” 

She couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the potential _marriage_ the tapestry would have confirmed as well.

A twinkle in Kingsley’s eye was the only outward sign of his praise, and it momentarily reminded her of his support following the war. “That was our initial deduction. Seeing as we couldn’t bring in one of the forewitches in charms and transfiguration due to her… personal relationship with the case—” He winked at her, dispelling some of the tension “—we contacted the second best person we could think of.”

As if on cue, another knock filtered through the office, and Hermione shot up, throwing a suspicious glare over her shoulder at the wizard who looked far more pleased than he had any right to.

Rather than waiting for either Auror to escort her to the door, Hermione stalked towards it, her heels clicking on the stone floor. But when a figure towered over her, her mouth fell open with an audible pop at the man leaning against the door frame. 

“ _Cormac_?”

The blond wizard ducked a nod at her as he strode over the threshold, a dark blue oxford hugging his trim figure, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But it was the manila folder he tossed down on Kingsley’s desk that drew her attention as he greeted her. “Granger. You’ve certainly aged well.”

Under normal circumstances, she’d bat the compliment away, but today she ignored it entirely as she granted him a one-armed side hug. “You’ve been working on the… case?” Her words trailed off lamely as she peered up at him.

He nodded. “The Minister called in a favour; he convinced the Department of Mysteries to spare me for a few weeks while we work through the case.”

“Ah. So what did you find?” She usually tried not to press, but…

Desperate times.

Fortunately, Cormac seemed to understand the importance and looked to Kingsley for permission to continue. “Right. Well, the spellwork on the tapestries is complex, but it’s rooted in familial magic.”

“Meaning only someone with Black blood can accurately perform the magic?” Hermione surmised.

“Correct.” Cormac opened the file, spreading out several pieces of parchment with detailed notes on the warding. He pulled the two final pieces, separate photos of a tapestry in an unfamiliar room, between them. 

He tapped the first one. “This is how it appeared upon first inspection. The Auror office sent a rookie, one I’m sure you’re familiar with. Ronald Weasley?”

A huff of a breath left her throat. Honestly, after waffling between jobs for so long, Hermione wasn’t surprised that Ron hadn’t made it as far as he could have within the office if he’d just applied himself.

The echo of that thought from their childhood days brought a smile to her lips. “We were friends in school, so yes, I’m familiar with him.” She studied the photograph, gaze roaming over the duplicate to the one she’d seen in Grimmauld Place. But a subtle shimmer in the bottom left of the photo caught her gaze.

If she hadn’t known what to look for, she’d have missed it.

“There,” she indicated with a tip of her chin. “Kingsley, do you have a magnifying glass?” 

Rather than summoning it himself—or allowing her to summon it—Kingsley opened Merryweather’s drawer, rifling through the items before he approached her with the requested item. 

He settled it in her hand as Cormac muttered, “You’re a witch. Why don’t you use a—”

“I’m a witch who works with magical forgeries in artwork; this isn’t outside the realm of my expertise. Just give me the damned thing and quit fussing about it,” she muttered, drawing the photograph closer to her face and tilting it to allow light to fall through the magnifying glass.

The tapestry worked its way through the Black family beginning in the Middle Ages. It was, admittedly, an impressive bit of magic, and Hermione found herself rather curious about its mechanics—a fact she blamed solely on her occupation. 

Resolving to examine the earlier entries later, she allowed her gaze to flicker to the bottom of the photo, roving over the last two generations. Andromeda hadn’t been blasted off this copy, and her countenance appeared quite mournful as it stared back at them. The branches that linked to hers had all fallen still, death dates listed alongside birth dates. The only image that moved was the colour-changing hair of a young Teddy Lupin.

Bellatrix’s lineage was much the same. Her marriage with Rodolphus was listed, both entries darkened in death.

Finally, Narcissa’s line, to which Lucius and Draco Malfoy were linked. The only portrait that moved was Lucius’, reflecting his imprisonment in Azkaban.

A fitting place for a murderer.

Sucking her teeth, Hermione tilted the photograph again, watching the shimmer extend over the Malfoy line into a pronounced sheen that she’d recognise anywhere. “I’d say that I’m the best person for the job.” She leaned back, settling the magnifying glass atop the photo. “Because this is a forgery.” 

A bright smile cracked Cormac’s face, and he exchanged a glance with Kingsley. “How can you tell?”

Scoffing, Hermione gestured to the image. “How could you miss it?” A flutter of guilt ran through her at inadvertently disparaging her old friend’s detective work, but… well, he’d never been the best at details. 

Micro-focusing on Ron’s shortfalls also kept her mind off the hurt lancing through her.

Kingsley rounded the desk, peering down at the image as Hermione dictated. “The tapestry _itself_ is authentic, but the charm isn’t. Without being able to examine it myself, I couldn’t tell you what this is.” She gestured at the shimmer. “But I _do_ know that I’ve seen this before. Innumerable times, really, on artwork that we’ve been offered for the collection.” 

“Told you we should have brought her in on this to begin with,” Cormac muttered. “Wasted a lot more time than necessary with Weasley.”

Kingsley didn’t respond to Cormac’s jab. “Miss… Granger?” She didn’t correct the unacknowledged married name. “What are you saying?”

She sucked her lip between her teeth, worrying it in the nervous tell she’d never been able to kick. “It appears as though the charm on the tapestry has been altered or an additional layer has been added without weaving it into the original magic.” 

Reaching around her, Cormac retrieved the second photo, settling it overtop the first without breaking eye contact. “Hermione, I’m sure this is going to be difficult, so if you need a minute—” 

“I’d like to see the tapestry in person, if you don’t mind,” she interrupted, silent dread tiptoeing up her spine as she pushed away the photo and stalked away.

“Miss Granger, I’m not sure that’s advis—” Kingsley followed her to the door as Merryweather darted in, his wand held aloft before him as it rang a dull whine. The tip glowed with a faint lavender tint. “Merryweather?” 

The other man’s face was an impassive mask but for a deep groove between his eyebrows. “The Trace, sir. I’ve located the Malfoys.”

At the same time, a Patronus soared through the window, so similar to her own that her stomach jolted. 

The little creature swam through the air, ghostly waves lapping gently against its side. “Granger, I’m sorry. Come home.”

Hermione’s stomach bottomed out at the confirmation. “I believe the tapestry can wait.” She stood, slipping her coat on and her scarf tightly around her neck. “It appears as though I need to have a conversation with my husband.”

It’d been the longest twenty-four hours of his life.

His mother had everything arranged—she’d likely kept it waiting for just the right moment.

But she had loose ends to tie up as Rosalind Ainsley, and so Draco alternated between pacing the length of the townhouse and sitting stiffly in the straight-backed chair by the fire, sipping generous servings of whiskey that burned like petrol.

One of the many luxuries he’d miss upon being unceremoniously thrown into Azkaban: driving. 

Once his mother had convinced him into a fitful sleep in the wee hours of the morning, memories with Granger streaked through his subconscious until he pushed upright and resumed his post by the fire.

The flames chased one another around the wood, the cracking and popping a near manifestation of the dread he wrestled with. Did she already know? 

Granger was bright. Deep down, he knew she had always suspected something was off with him. That he had no family beyond his mother, no ties to anything but the townhome in which all their worldly possessions were stored. 

Granger had harboured secrets of her own for so long he’d begun to wonder if she’d ever crack, but somewhere along the way she had begun to trust him. The dams had broken and she’d bore her heart to him in a way he was sure she’d never done with anyone else.

That was perhaps his worst sin of all—abusing that trust. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking?”

He turned towards the voice. Illuminated in shifting shadows, his mother lingered in the door way, her face blank save the sorrow that flickered in her eyes. This wasn’t the life she wanted either.

“She’ll never forgive me, Mother.” He cleared his throat, refusing to let the tears that stung his eyes fall. “How do I tell one of the strongest people I know that I was too weak to face the consequences of my actions?” 

She was across the room like a shot, shoulders drawn back and eyes flashing like the regal witch she once was—still was, if the way her ire washed over Draco was any indication. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you listen carefully.” She didn’t dare bend over him, but her presence was large enough that it felt so. “You did what you had to do to keep your family _safe_ —then and now.”

“Yes, but—”

“No.” Her denial was flat, hard, but her eyes softened around the edges as she crouched before him, taking his hands in hers. “You made mistakes—horrible mistakes that, yes, hurt some, including those you love. But did you learn from them?”

He canted his head to the side, a grimace working its way over his features. “I did, but—” 

“I loved your father, flawed though he was.” Her hand fluttered over the band she still wore on her left ring finger. “There was a time when I thought he hung the moon, thought he could do no wrong.” She laughed dryly. “Those ideas? That Muggles and Muggleborns were inferior? They were your father’s way of chasing after a power that he never deserved.”

Draco couldn’t bear to face her, so he squeezed her hand again, accepting the anchor she offered him.

“You didn’t have a choice, my dragon, and when you were finally able to execute your own fate, you did what you thought was best,” Narcissa added, a catch in her throat around the final words. “And though it may have been a mistake, it brought you—brought _us_ —the greatest gifts our family has _ever_ had.” 

Shame rose up in him again as Draco ripped his hand from hers and crossed the room in several angry stomps, snatching the whiskey from the drinks trolley. “And I’ll ruin that, too.”

“I think you ought to give your wife credit where it is due,” his mother responded, rising from the undignified crouch in favour of the sofa. “There are rumours that more plagues the wizarding world than either of us are aware.”

The hairs rose on the back of Draco’s neck as he turned slowly, ice clinking in his glass. “What do you—” 

“There have been disturbances, my son. Slight, but obvious—lethal—nonetheless. Muggles going missing, artefacts disappearing from places of honour. And all of it bears resemblance to the happenings before the Dark Lord rose the first time.” Approaching the fireplace, the right half of her face was cast in shadows as she leaned forward, carefully dislodging a brick near the mantle.

When she turned, brick in hand, she gave it a minute shake, a glamour falling away as it expanded into an oblong wooden box. The slight shake jostled the contents.

Glass. And something—cylindrical? Draco couldn’t be sure, but he held his breath as she approached, something akin to reverence in the way she held it aloft before her and then settled it on the lacquered bar top between them. 

“Go on, then,” she uttered, gesturing to the box.

It was simple, a metal turn latch holding the lid closed. Barely a flick of his fingers turned the lock and when it sprung open, he thought he ought to have expected more fanfare. 

Within was a handful of vials, stoppered potions, and myriad ingredients, all covered in a thin layer of dust. However, it was a thin velvet bag hastily tucked in diagonally across the others that gave him pause, and his hand shook as he reached in and withdrew it.

“Is it…?” He tried to quell the hope rising in his stomach, the riot of nerves that danced along his skin and made his fingers quiver, but the familiar shape drew him to it.

When his mother’s visage softened with a quirk of her lips and a barely there nod, he loosened the drawstrings and shook the contents loose. 

_His wand_.

The hawthorne length was as familiar as his own hand. A worn groove dipped where his thumb had once rested, often and comfortable, the wand altogether simple in its design. His magic immediately flared to life, warming him from the inside out in places he hadn’t even realised had grown cold and dormant.

“Where did you find it?” he whispered, not trusting his voice.

A cunning smile lifted his mother’s lips. “Did you honestly think that I would allow our lineage to fade away into obscurity?” She rapped her knuckles on the bartop once before turning away, neatly tucking her hands together against the small of her back. “Rosalind Ainsley is a resourceful woman.”

Her gaze was cutting when she glanced over her shoulder. “Many wizards would pay handsome sums to have the matriarch of the Malfoy line in debt to them.”

An unfamiliar tension stiffened her gait, and Draco’s eyes tightened. “Mother, what have you done?”

“Nothing that can’t be rectified with a little political tit for tat, dear.” She waved off his concern and eyed the wand gripped in his hand. “That is your ticket to freedom. You have not used magic since escaping Hogwarts, correct?”

He nodded, a singular jerk of his head. “Save the bewitchment of our appearance, correct. I thought the wand lost.” 

Narcissa’s gaze fell to the box that remained on the bar then back to him. “The wand will reflect that.” Her expression sobered, gaze imploring, as she approached him. When her hands wrapped around his, he felt a tremour that hadn’t been there before. “You will use the wand to summon the Aurors here. And they will come because they believe you to be behind the disappearances—attempting to summon the Dark Lord again.”

Nausea swooped hard and fast through him, dark spots dancing before his eyes. “Mother, I—”

“There is no room for negotiation. We must act quickly to prove our innocence of this.” Her voice brooked no room for argument, but still he sucked his lip between his teeth, a habit he’d picked up from Granger. “You must be aware that Miss Granger will not understand why you have hidden this from her.”

The knot in his throat returned.

“She will feel betrayed, perhaps vengeful, but it is of the utmost importance that you convince her that this is _not your doing_ ,” she pressed. “If we’re to figure this out, you will need her help.”

Something shifted behind his mother’s eyes, and Draco paused, searching her expression carefully. “What do you know?”

She turned away. “Not enough to make a difference, I’m afraid.” She paused before the fireplace again. “I do know that we are being framed, and it’s very likely that the person who has chosen to frame us is closer to us than we might think.” 

Draco heaved a deep breath, staring at the wand clutched in his palm. It felt foreign after so long without magic, almost like his first year at Hogwarts all over again.

It had always called to him—to say otherwise would be a disservice to the magic he’d fought to keep dormant for thirteen long years, save brief bursts to prove to himself all was not lost. But now, with his wand in his hand and a world of possibilities opening before him for a very limited time before the Aurors showed, Draco didn’t know what to cast.

“Draco, darling?” 

“I don’t know what to do, Mother.” A knot wound into the back of his throat as he acknowledged everything he was about to lose.

His children. Merlin, his children were the best things that had ever happened to him. And the thought that he might never see them again— 

And Granger. Oh, Granger would be furious, and she had every right to be. Thirteen years of marriage a lie. Well, it’d seem that way to her, wouldn’t it? She’d never believe him when he told her that the only thing he’d ever feigned was his facade. 

But his mother’s hand settled over his. “Whatever you do, darling, I will be at your side.” Her earlier resolve steeled her tone. “Call for Hermione, and when she arrives, make her believe you.”

Nodding to himself and stepping back from his mother’s grasp, Draco lifted the wand. A couple dim flashes of light, a sustained _Lumos_ , and a hasty _Nox_ brought the magic back to him as though it had never left.

 _It’s like riding a bike,_ Granger’s voice whispered through his head, a warm blanket around the chill of fear that coiled around him like a cloak.

It was with her brilliant smile in his mind, the memory of her legs wrapping around his waist as she beamed brilliantly up at him amidst a sea of linen that he waved his wand in a clumsy imitation of twisting arcs she’d shown the children time and time again: “ _Expecto Patronum_!” 

For a breath of a moment, nothing happened. But then, like a stream of early-morning light through a curtained window, a brilliant flare of blue emitted from his wand, curling around itself until it coalesced into a tiny, web-footed creature that was heart-rendingly familiar.

An otter.

With a choked breath, he coaxed the spectral form closer, fingers instinctively reaching to tickle the underside of its chin before he directed in a whispered exaltation, “Find her.” And then, in the tone he reserved only for her, he pleaded, “Granger, I’m sorry. Come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, hi everyone! Thanks for joining me on this journey; your reviews all made my day. Again, an eleventy billion thanks to LadyKenz347, niffizzle, mcal, In Dreams, and farmulousa for the British Alphabet work. They're rockstars, the lot of them. See you next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A cold draft through the interrogation room chilled Draco to his core, but it had nothing on the dread that held his heart in a vice grip. 

Beyond the two-way glass, he could _feel_ Granger staring him down.

It was very likely that she was plotting what spell she would use to eviscerate him first.

He couldn’t blame her. The more he thought about it, the more he realised just how royally fucked he was. Like the conscience he’d never wanted, the phrase _thirteen years_ reverberated through his mind like a hippogriff in a china shop: everything it touched crashed to the ground in a shower of glass shards.

The room was soundproofed, but he knew that it was only for effect. Every so often, bits of conversation would filter their way into the space, but only when the information he’d overhear was sure to drive him further into guilt.

So far, he’d heard that Granger was likely to seek full custody of the children and persecution to the highest extent that wizarding law would allow. Furthermore, she was allowing him to stew in his guilt in order to loosen his tongue. Someone else had said—between laughter that allowed Draco to discount its veracity—that she was in the process of contracting Dementors to dispatch them without fuss.

As though Granger would stoop to such archaic means despite how angry she might be at him. 

The first was the only part of it that wrought any real fear. He’d long ago resigned himself to facing Azkaban when this all inevitably came out. He could face Azkaban, could even stomach a divorce if it truly came to it, but he couldn’t bear not seeing the children again.

The thought alone made his heart race and his hands clammy.

So, of course, fate would have it that the clicking sound of heels filtered into his room.

He shot upright, remaining behind the narrow desk as the measured steps grew closer with each passing second. By the time they paused outside his door, his heart felt as though it was a snitch in his chest, its wings fluttering against the restriction.

The door swung open, his visitor striding in, and it was… not who he expected to see at all.

“Pansy?” His disbelief rang clear through the room, but the witch waved him off.

“Good to see you too, Draco.” She stalked towards him, a severe frown aimed in his direction. When he opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head. “I am here to act as your solicitor, not your friend.” 

“You’re my— _What_?!” 

Pansy dropped her briefcase on the table, waving her hand over it to unlock the contents. “Believe it or not, Draco, some of us made something of ourselves after the war ended.” She peered up at him from beneath her blunt fringe. “Not all of us ran away from our penance.”

A personal sting clung to the words, and Draco bit back the apology he knew Pansy would fillet him for. He rolled his shoulders, trying to determine the contents of the briefcase. “What’s our plan?” 

“ _Your_ plan is to tell me whatever you know.” Pansy swung her gaze towards the mirror and groused, “I’ll be taking fifteen minutes with my client. I’m sure you understand—legalities and whatnot.” She didn’t wait for the light above the window to flash green before she turned, leaning against the desk and motioning for him to follow suit.

“No offense, Pans, but I don’t think fifteen minutes is enough time to—” 

With a harsh scoff, she rolled her eyes. “Catch me up on _thirteen years_ of your life that you saw fit to unceremoniously cut us out of? Save it, Draco.” She stared at the wall, jaw working in a grind that would have made his in-laws rage. “What you’re going to do is stand there and methodically explain what in _Merlin’s_ name you thought you were doing, and so help me gods if one apology comes out of your mouth, I will hex you to bits and then leave you to defend yourself. Got it?”

He nodded with a sharp laugh that earned him another glare. 

“I didn’t mean to end up with Granger,” he started, words slow. “Mother and I left the final battle as soon as we knew Voldemort was dead. We didn’t wait—I knew if we did we’d have been locked in Azkaban for our crimes. You know how hell-bent on vengeance the new Ministry was.”

A non-committal grunt left Pansy, but she didn't respond further.

“Mother knew a witch—an _old_ witch—who knew her as a child. We contacted her, and the woman offered to arrange new identities for us for a pretty sum,” Draco continued, eyes tightening.

Pansy held up a hand. “The Ministry would have known if you had taken money from the vaults.”

“Not if we had been moving the money the entire time, Pans.” He turned to her, imploring her to look at him with a hand to her elbow. When she finally met his eyes, he continued. “My mother had been securing our escape for years. She opened a Muggle bank account and converted the money herself.”

Shaking him off, Pansy paced before him. “So what you’re telling me is that you and Narcissa conveniently ran away to live as Muggles, simple as that.”

He winced, lifting a shoulder. “It wasn’t all simple. We had to haggle with the witch for new identities. It required a price that was far more precious than money.”

Pansy paused, lifting a brow. “Spell it out for me like I’m really stupid, Malfoy.”

Despite the precarity of the situation, his mouth lifted in a smile. “You only call me Malfoy when you’re angry with me.”

“Yes, well you’d be angry too if one of your dearest friends disappeared and was presumed dead for a decade.” For the first time since her arrival, hurt coloured her voice and Draco felt the stirrings of guilt in his chest. She looked away, shaking her head, and prompted, “Spit it out, _Malfoy_.”

“In order to help us, this witch needed to be able to use Black magic. Not much,” he added, noting the way her spine went rigid, “but enough that she might be able to manipulate the tapestry in the Manor. To make it look like we’d been killed in battle. She said she’d find us in due time to collect the remaining payment for the change.”

He watched Pansy work through it in her head, the grimace pulling at her lips reflecting his own distaste at the thought. “She was going to blackmail you—or she needed something further from you.” When he nodded, she added, “And how did she gain access to the Black magic?”

Consternation knit his brow. “A transferral spell of her own creation.”

Pansy paled. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“I didn’t. My mother—” He cursed, regret heavy on him again. “I’d be willing to bet whoever took it used my mother’s magic to frame her whenever the opportunity arose.” 

“The uprising,” Pansy whispered, brows pulled into a deep vee. “There have been whispers, things the Ministry haven’t quite been able to cover up entirely…”

Fear speared through Draco at the confirmation. “I’ve not been able to keep track of everything going on given—” 

_My family_. Acknowledging his role in its dissolution wound a knot in his vocal cords, staying his words. 

Pansy’s hand tightened into a fist, but she left it for the moment, gesturing to his appearance instead. “And this?”

“Part of the disappearing—she bewitched our appearances, altered them semi-permanently. Said it was a small price to pay for security and only she would know who we were.” He looked away, pulling his lip between his teeth. “I’m a quick study—you know that—and I didn’t appreciate being further indebted to the witch. It wasn’t hard to duplicate the process when we left, tweaking it further so she wouldn’t be able to find us.” 

Hermione shouldn’t have been listening—especially not when it could jeopardise any trial she might have against Malfoy, but she’d needed some kind of confirmation that the man in the room bearing her husband’s facade was who he claimed to be. 

Her body acted of its own accord. 

She shot upright, stalking out of the observation room and to the door behind which Malfoy was to be interrogated, photos of the tapestry gripped in an angry fist.

Not bothering to knock, she marched into the room, fierce satisfaction rolling over her as both Parkinson and Malfoy whirled around.

“Granger, I’ve got five more minutes with my client!” Parkinson spat, spinning around with her wand aloft. “You’re not above the law no matter how important you are.” 

Parkinson’s voice dulled to a low murmur as Hermione’s eyes caught on James— _Malfoy_ —and tears filled her gaze, photos fluttering to the floor as she unhosltered her wand and pointed it at the man’s face. “How _could_ you?”

She knew that remorse in his expression, and part of her knew that it couldn’t be faked. But a larger part of her—the part that housed her very wounded pride—rioted against the sympathy she felt at the sorrow in his gaze. 

It was only the clearing of a throat behind her that kept her from slinging a hex at Parkinson, who had stepped forward to block Malfoy from the line of fire.

“Sorry to interrupt this little lover’s spat, but we need to get some answers here, Granger.” Auror Merrythought brushed past her, forcing her wand to her side as he went. “Somehow I doubt Mister Malfoy will be willing to answer with a wand in his face.” 

She and Parkinson scoffed at the same time, earning Hermione a glare before Pansy retorted, “I am guaranteed by Ministry Statute 311 Section 40 to have at least fifteen minutes of debriefing with my client before—”

As if on cue, the light above the two-way window blinked to red and Pansy scowled at it.

Merrythought appeared amused as he settled into the chair opposite Malfoy’s. “It looks like your time is up, Parkinson.” He canted his head, summoning the discarded photos with an ease that Hermione admired before she slid into the seat next to him. “Now, the Ministry has a few questions for Mister Malfoy—I presume you have no problem answering to your _correct_ name?”

The expanse of the table wasn’t wide enough for Hermione’s liking; she could see the way the colour drained out of his cheeks, a resolve touching his mossy eyes that she was familiar with. He’d been cornered.

Parkinson dropped into her seat with a muttered expletive, scooting the chair forward with an undignified screech that Hermione was sure the witch had done for effect. “You’re under no obligation to answer any of their questions should you choose not to—as your counsel, I advise that you refrain from incriminating yourself further.”

A notch settled between Malfoy’s brow and he looked up from the table, gaze locking on Hermione’s. “I have nothing to hide anymore—nothing to lose. I’ll answer anything they want to know.”

Her heart clenched at his familiar voice. How many times had he promised her that there would be no secrets between them?

How long had he planned to keep this monumental betrayal from her?

Merrythought steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “As touching as this is, I’m not worried about why you chose to hide from the Ministry.” He tapped his fingers on the underside of his jaw. “Or, I should say, while I _am_ rather intrigued why you would run from the field of battle if you’d done nothing wrong, Minister Shacklebolt instated a statute of limitations on war crimes committed by those of school age—seeing as your magical signature bears no evidence of ever casting the Killing Curse, you’d have gone free with minor reparations from your estate.” 

Malfoy froze, his eyes going wide as a strangled breath left him. “You mean—”

Merrythought’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Malfoy. I’d have made your life a living hell and fought for _any_ charges to stick after what your lot did during the war.” He leaned back, distaste roiling off him in waves. “Innocent people died because you chose to support that monster.” A falsely bright smile stretched across his face. “But I suppose what ends well is all well and good for you, isn’t it.”

Hermione sat frozen, watching the power play as the Head Auror leaned forward, selecting a photo from the bottom of the manilla folder he’d carried in. He slapped it down on the table, spinning it toward Malfoy, but not quickly enough that she didn’t see the image.

It was Hogwarts. Or, rather, the Great Hall in the aftermath of the war. Bodies were laid in a neat row where the Gryffindor table should have been, those who weren’t mortally wounded bustling back and forth to tend to the others. 

In the background, a flash of blond hair darted towards the edge, dragging a cloaked woman so quickly off the page that she’d have missed it had she blinked.

“You left the battle with your Mother.” It wasn’t a question, but Malfoy nodded anyway, and Merrythought continued. “This image was the only one to exist that bore any evidence that you survived beyond the culmination of the war. I have to admit, whoever you had on the inside is one hell of a wizard.”

A frown pulling at his lips, Malfoy leaned forward, examining the photo as his skin paled further into a ghostly pallour. “I don’t have anyone on the inside. What are you—”

But Merrythought opened his manilla folder, pulling a handful of additional photos from the war’s immediate aftermath from its depths and fanning them on the table. He pushed the first towards her. “Miss Granger, why don’t you tell me what you see here.”

Steeling herself, Hermione leaned forward, examining the image as she pinched the inside of her thigh to keep her expression stoic. It grounded her, the pain. “It appears as though this is the seventh floor.” She scanned the wall, spotting the portrait she was looking for in the foreground. “This is the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, across from which is the—” She stopped herself abruptly, sucking in a breath as she looked up at Malfoy. “The Room of Requirement.” 

Merrythought nodded. “Tricky bit of magic, isn’t it, the Room of Requirement?” He didn’t wait for any of them to answer, prodding her further. “What else do you see?”

Tearing her gaze away from Malfoy’s drawn face, she leaned forward, studying the bustling figures. “It looks like a recovery effort—there’s Luna.” She pointed to a flash of a blonde braid darting into the room, tugging someone behind her. But just before she disappeared off page, the image warped.

Merrythought hummed under his breath. “That’s what I thought—what _all_ of the Aurors thought. We were eager to put the war behind us. Prosecute those we could find and then begin the process of rebuilding Hogwarts, patching up morale. But look closer, Miss Granger.”

Hermione didn’t need the prompting, already unholstering her wand again and poising it over the photograph. 

The twists of her wand weaved over the photograph by rote, incantations pouring from her lips as she removed layer after layer of magic. “ _Aparecium_. _Arcana Divulgium._ ”

It felt strange, having James— _Malfoy_ —watch her perform extensive magic. She’d used the few odd household charms in front of him when her hands were full, but she avoided it by and large because it felt nice to have the clean divide between magic in her work life and a Muggle home life.

It reminded her of her parents and her childhood, and she’d held that space sacred for as long as she could remember.

Now, though, she could feel the air fraught with magic as she examined the photo. And, with a jolt that pulled her out of her work, she realised she could feel Malfoy’s magic reaching out to curl around her own.

Her head shot up, eyes rounding as she found herself caught in that endless green gaze. It’d been what had first drawn her to James—as silly as it sounded, it was his eyes’ resemblance to Harry’s that drew her in, that made her feel safe. He’d been warm, funny with a dry humour that always forced a surprised laugh from deep in her belly, and she’d fallen into the comfortable relationship with him almost instantaneously.

Now, with proof that he wasn’t who he had claimed to be for so many years mingling around her magic, his treachery felt personal in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge before.

She forced herself to look away, back to the photograph she held pinned to the table like a lifeline and renewed her spellwork. Her hand shook, and the spell faltered momentarily, but with a final, whispered, “ _Reverte_ ,” the photograph rippled once and the glamour lifted.

Where Luna had been darting into the room, Malfoy ran, a craggy line of dried blood extending down his cheek and staining the plain white shirt he wore beneath a tattered robe. His mother limped along behind him, gaze peering over her shoulder at the witches and wizards who searched among the rubble for survivors. 

When Malfoy pulled Narcissa into the room, she whipped her head around, eyes widening as they landed on the person who took the photo before ducking into the Room of Requirement. 

Into the silence of the room, Hermione whispered, “It’s done,” and pushed the photo away.

Merrythought leaned over the table, pinning the photo under his finger as he slid it between Parkinson and Malfoy. “One of many that prove you had help on the inside. I’m sure Granger could help solidify that evidence, but her talents are needed elsewhere.”

Parkinson sneered down at the photo, crossing her arms over her chest. “All this proves is that someone saw fit to cover up the Malfoy family’s survival. There is no definitive proof that either Draco or Narcissa orchestrated this. For all we know, one of the surviving Death Eaters concealed the evidence to help—”

She cut off, her skin paling as she realised what she said, but Merrythought’s lips lifted in a cruel smile. 

“Do go on, Miss Parkinson. Concealed evidence to help what?” he wheedled, carding through the remaining photos. 

It was Malfoy to lean forward and add, “To help the Death Eaters conceal evidence of an uprising.” 

Swearing, Pansy yanked him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Malfoy, _shut up_.” Watching the witch shift into damage control was fascinating. She swept her bob back, her face schooling into impassivity as she intoned, “As my client, I advise you not to answer any further questions.”

But Malfoy shook his head, leaning over the table to snag the bottom photo—a duplicate of the one depicting the tapestry in his family home. Confusion warped his face. “This is in the Manor—no one has been there since Potter and his lot escaped.”

The reminder of what occurred in the drawing room sent a phantom pain that Hermione thought she had overcome long ago through her arm. She immediately dropped it into her lap, pressing her palm against her forearm. 

Malfoy saw though, and another flash of guilt ricocheted across his face before he turned to Merrythought. “Only a Malfoy can get into the Manor—we ensured that before we left for the battle. And only someone with Black blood can alter that tapestry.” He peered down at it, examining the shimmer at the corner of the photo. “Whoever did this didn’t have proper training in the art of tapestry magic.”

Merrythought nodded, begrudging respect in his expression. “I’m well aware, Mister Malfoy. Your _wife_ —” the word was said on a sneer “—already examined the magic on a previous photo, leading to our confirmation that you were indeed alive.” 

But Malfoy frowned down at the photograph. “We knew the Ministry would look for us, but we didn’t have time to properly charm the tapestry, so we hired the witch.” He tapped his finger rhythmically, working through something in his head. “This is why they never searched; we’d never determined why, just thought it was dumb luck that they were counting their blessings that we’d disappeared.”

Parkinson turned to him, her jaw gaping in shock before she added, “Your father—Oh, Merlin.” She swivelled in her seat, laying her palms flat on the table. “Listen up. It’s becoming increasingly evident that this is larger than any of us are aware of. I can confidently assure you that Draco Malfoy is innocent of whatever you’re accusing him. While you lot sit around and waste time—”

Huffing a laugh, Merrythought pushed himself upright as he slammed his own palms on the tabletop, towering over the table with his face inches from Parkinson’s. “You might be careful who you accuse of ‘wasting time,’ witch.” His nostrils flared and he jabbed a finger in Malfoy’s direction. “I don’t give a rat’s _arse_ what you have to say—it’s awfully fishy that he’s been hiding for _years_ and all these magical disappearances seem to be connected to the Malfoy family.” 

Hermione whipped her head around at him, staring the Auror down as he seethed in Parkinson’s face. “Disappearances? You said that Muggles were going missing, but—”

“It’s not just Muggles, Miss Granger.” The door opened, and Kingsley’s frame filled it, a horde of armed Aurors towering behind him. “Magical and Muggle alike, creatures, the lot of it—vanishing without a trace.”

Her stomach sank as she turned, gathering the photos in her hand and lifting them upright. “What does this have to do with anything, then?” 

Kingsley’s face sobered. “You’re off your game, Granger. You had one of the greatest magical forgeries in history sleeping in your bed, but you didn’t recognise it.” He cracked his knuckles, entering the room as Aurors flanked him. “But Mister Malfoy is not the one behind the disappearances—neither is his mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! A little earlier for the update today; I have family in town and wanted to make sure this went up before we got busy. Thank you so much for your lovely reviews on the last chapter. Y'all are making me all sniffly! I haven't had a chance to respond yet, but it's on my to-do list! I'm also sorry for the cliffhanger; the story begins to move more quickly after this chapter! Shoutout again to my wonderful alphabet—niffizzle, mcal, LadyKenz347, In Dreams, and farmulousa—for their help with this!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene that might be triggering for some readers. No archive warnings apply for this fic at all, but if you'd like an explanation to determine if you should continue to read, please skip to the note at the end of the chapter.

**Chapter 4**

Merrythought whirled, astonishment blanketing his face. “How can you be sure that he’s not behind the disappearances, Kings? He’s a known Death Eater and has been in hiding for thirteen years. It doesn’t get much more guilty than that.” 

From within the folds of his robes, Kingsley withdrew a piece of parchment. On a gust of wind much like the one that had sent Archer’s Hogwarts letter to Hermione, Kingsley floated the parchment across the room, depositing it safely on the table between them. 

Hermione reacted first, snatching it from its resting place.

“Minister Shacklebolt,” she read aloud, gaze flying over the parchment. “Thank you for seeking out the missing piece of my puzzle—you’ve really made this rather easy for me. I’ll offer you a trade. Deliver the Malfoy matriarch and son to me at the specified location—without Auror involvement—and we’ll leave wizarding Britain in peace. ”

Turning the page over, Hermione sped through the last lines. Her fingers tightened on the parchment as the world seemed to close in around her, her breath stolen from her lungs as she doubled over. 

Malfoy snatched the paper from her hands as she crumpled.

“What does it say?” Parkinson pressed, her voice distant.

“If the Malfoys are not delivered within one week, I will have no choice but to dispose of the last living Malfoy heirs. The choice is yours.” Malfoy’s voice grew increasingly pinched with each word, and finally, he slammed the paper down, real anger in his tone for the first time since she’d stepped foot in the interrogation room. “What the hell does this even mean?”

An Auror she didn’t recognise averted his gaze as he whispered something to Kingsley, but Hermione caught enough of it to crumple further. “The team that was to surveil the property was attacked and the wards breached. The children are missing.”

_Missing._ The weight of the word crashed over her, and she immediately shook her head. Her heartbeat pounded frantically in her ears as she summoned her bag. “They’re safe at Harry’s—no one can get through the—”

The Black family wards. 

Even as she tried to deny it, terror clawed in her stomach. It was a coincidence. The kids were safe. They had to be. Straightening her shoulders, she looked into Kingsley’s face, desperate for him to contradict her. “Cho was home—they’re probably playing hide and seek. You know how kids are.” Her hollow laugh fell between them, and no one would meet her gaze.

“Cho was stunned,” a familiar voice answered her, and she turned, spying Harry’s messy mop of hair as he shouldered through the door. “Albus and James are shaken up, but they’re okay.” A flash of regret flickered across his face.

“No,” Hermione whispered. “They’re fine. They’ve got to be there.” The sting of tears pricked behind her eyes, and she pushed past Kingsley. She tittered a nervous laugh, teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

Harry shook his head. “I’ll take you to the house, but Hermione, Elara and Archer are gone.” 

There was no trace of humour in his expression, nothing to indicate that he was anything but honest, and Hermione pitched forward, her knees knocking as denial gave way to grief, the waves of it drawing a prolonged sob of anguish from her throat as she sank to the floor.

Around her, Aurors swarmed the office as Merrythought barked orders. Part of her wanted to gather the shattered bits of herself up and force herself together, but the fear lodged in her chest stole her breath and robbed her of movement.

But then arms wrapped around her, so familiar in their warmth and the pervading scent of cedar that clung to them that she sank into them. Her shoulders shuddered with the force of her sobs. 

“I’ve got you,” James— _Malfoy_ —murmured, stroking her hair. She curled further into him, seeking out the comfort that his embrace brought her, even as her mind screamed his betrayal. He pulled away, forcing her chin up towards his. “Hermione. _Hermione,_ look at me.”

She shook her head, tunneling into the despair as she squeezed her eyes shut. 

He sighed, swearing under his breath. “Damn it, Granger, _look. At. M_ e.”

The voracity of his demand snapped her out of her grief for just a moment, and she peered up at him, blurry through the haze of her tears.

He set his mouth in a grimly, determination and matching terror in every line of his features. “We’ll find them, Hermione,” he swore, his thumb brushing over her jaw. “Do you hear me? If it’s the last thing I do before this lot carts me off to Azkaban, we’ll find them.

Slowly, she nodded, latching onto the resolve in his gaze. “Together?”

A relieved breath issued from deep in his chest as he nodded and grasped her hand, pulling her upright. “Together.” With a final squeeze of her hand, he turned towards Kingsley, drawing his shoulders taut. “Give me Veritaserum, take my memories, do whatever you fucking have to do to get me out of this godsdamned room so I can get my children back.” 

Hermione could feel the angry swell of Malfoy’s magic, the ripples of it colliding and twining with her own, frantic tendrils reaching for him even as she fought it.

How many times had she thought she sensed _something_ by way of magic from him but ignored it, quashing those instincts that she’d relied on for nearly every other aspect of her life?

Hermione couldn’t help but admire the easy authority he took in a room full of wizards who likely despised him, and she suddenly realised she didn’t share the sentiments. 

A lingering sense of betrayal, certainly. More than a little confusion that he’d never thought to tell her. But she pushed it aside and stepped alongside him with a stiff nod. “Are there any leads? There wasn’t a location on the parchment.”

Kingsley approached her, another paper in his hand. “Miss Granger, I don’t believe that it is a good idea for you to be involved in the invest—”

Her resolve snapped. “Bugger what you think is a good idea! If you had approached me months ago when you knew what was going on, my children wouldn’t be at stake in this; we very well might have cut this off at its head.” Her voice climbed in octaves as she went, but she didn’t pause. “Either tell me what you know or _so help me gods,_ I will burn the Ministry down until I can find my children.” 

Her emotions volleyed between anger and fear; anything could happen in a week.

A flicker of what might have been pride passed through Kingsley’s eyes before it was replaced with serious contemplation. He extended his hand, a piece of worn paper held between his fingers. Even before it reached her palm, she could feel the familiar thrumming of magic roiling off it.

“I can only assume that their location is hidden within this,” he uttered, imploring her to meet his gaze. “Miss Granger, this is dangerous. You are not a Ministry employee, and therefore—”

_“Therefore_ you cannot advise me not to intervene on behalf of my children, particularly not when it involves my profession.” She withdrew her wand and summoned her bag. 

Merrythought frowned at her. “Granger, what Kingsley isn’t saying is, with all due respect, your expertise is needed elsewhere.” Her jaw dropped open to retort, but he held a hand up, barrelling on. “It’s likely that whoever kidnapped your children is also behind the tapestry and who helped procure Malfoy’s semi-permanent state of transfiguration. Having you on scene will only serve to contaminate any evidence which may have been left behind.”

Hermione slammed her hand down, stomach in knots. Without thinking, she swung towards the Auror, finger aloft and pointed in his face. “That is unacceptable, Merrythought. I don’t give a hippogriff’s arse what credentials you have. The first seventy-two hours are critical in any disappearance, Muggle or magical. I will be there when you search for my children.”

But Kingsley stepped between them, eyeing the finger that had been inches from jabbing into Merrythought’s chest. “Miss Granger, you would do well to remember that any further action could be considered assault on a magical law enforcement officer.” 

Seething, she turned away, ripping out her chair and collapsing into it. “So what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for further correspondence from the monster that kidnapped my children?”

Shaking his head, Kingsley sat across from her, gesturing for Malfoy to take the seat alongside her own. 

Malfoy’s expression shone with a fear so deep that she could feel herself swimming in it. Their dynamic had clearly shifted since his revelation; a fraught tension hung between them. The feeling was unfamiliar; it occupied a space where up until now she had felt nothing but contented adoration for her husband. The desperation drowning his expression was as tangible and visceral as her own. 

It took everything in her not to reach for the familiar solace of his hand. Heaving in a sharp breath, she swallowed the longing for his comfort and turned, stony-faced, towards the table.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy clear his throat and abruptly look away, his expression carefully blank. “What do you need us to do?” 

The question was punctuated by a flurry of activity from Aurors streaming into the room. “You’re right. The first seventy-two hours are imperative; that’s why we need to divide and conquer this as much as we can,” Merrythought answered, waving his wand over the blank wall opposite the observation glass. A peg board materialised, photos arranging themselves in neat rows organised by location and date. “What we need to do is make the most of our resources.”

Hermione frowned, acknowledging the truth of his statement even as irritation bubbled up in her core. “And that leaves us where?”

He swept his arm in a wide arc over the photographs of the Malfoy tapestry. “As I already said, whoever altered this tapestry is likely to have been the one to kidnap your children. We know why.” 

“What we don’t know is _how_ they have access to the Malfoy magic,” Kingsley added, a serious pull to his lips. 

“I might have an idea,” Draco began, leaning forward as he rubbed the stubble growing over his jaw. “When we left the Battle of Hogwarts—”

“ _Draco_ ,” Pansy hissed, “You are under no obligation to tell them anything—you’ve not committed a crime.”

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Merrythought countered, “That has yet to be determined, Parkinson. How are we to know this isn’t some elaborate scheme to escape without persecution and wrest the children from their mother?”

Hermione’s heart seized in her chest before taking off at a gallop, but Malfoy reached out, wrapping her hand in his with the altogether too familiar gesture she’d coveted mere moments before.

“Hermione, I know how this looks, but you have to believe that I wouldn’t use our children as pawns,” he whispered. The strain in the words garnered her attention and she studied him closely, desperate for a glimpse of the boy she knew from school. The tidy lines of his normally kempt facial hair were starting to overgrow, deep blue and black half-circles stained under his eyes from lack of sleep over the last twenty-four hours, perhaps coupled by a decade of guilt at his deception. “I know what it’s like to have your family use you as a means to an end. I’d _never_ do that to our children.”

Perhaps it was the length of time she'd spent with him, but she recognised the honesty in his expression and allowed a modicum of the trust she’d put in him over the years to revive. “I know.”

They weren’t the same work-worn fingers grasping hers. She imagined the long, smooth digits that spoke of an aristocratic upbringing spent learning the keys of a piano instead of the pride of hard work. He quickly squeezed her hand and released it, facing Merrythought. 

“With all due respect, _sir_ , if I had any intention of kidnapping my children and depriving my wife of them, I believe I’ve already demonstrated how easy it is to thwart your system. We’d be long gone by now.” He cleared his throat. “While it’s all well and good that you lot would like to plan this _strategically_ or what have you—” He mimed the air quotes with a vicious snarl. “My very real and defenseless children are out there somewhere with some— some _madman_ —”

“Or woman,” Pansy interjected.

“Or woman,” he parroted through gritted teeth, “and every minute we stand around here arguing is a minute wasted.” 

Each of them blinked at him, expressions ranging from apoplectic to shocked. Despite her reservations, a distinct sense of pride buoyed in Hermione’s chest. “He’s right, and I’m not just saying that because they’re my children.” Hermione leaned forward, ignoring the eye contact he desperately tried to make. 

Malfoy leaned back in the chair, his leg brushing against hers sending a jolt through her before he wrenched upright, elbows resting on the edge of the table. “So that means we need to act now—”

“Or risk never seeing our children alive again,” she finished, heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat as she choked back tears.

As if unable to hold back any longer, Malfoy blurted, “When we fled Hogwarts at the culmination of the war, my mother and I made a deal with a witch—access to the Black family magic in exchange for safe passageway into the Muggle world undetected.”

Kingsley snapped his fingers, a quill and parchment appearing before him. “Do you remember what she looked like?”

Shrugging, Draco glanced sidelong at Hermione. “Young. Pretty. But for all I know, it could have been another glamour. We didn’t speak long; my mother was the one who had spoken most intensively to her. If you can ensure that she will not be prosecuted, I’ll arrange for her to speak with you.”

“And where did you meet with this witch?” Kingsley pressed, scratching another line across the parchment.

“Her home—or what I presume was her home. She has access to Black family magic through a spell that allowed her to siphon my mother’s magic. She’s—” He swore under his breath. “My mother is essentially a Squib now.” Gaze darting upright, he met Kingsley’s eyes. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I will do whatever it takes to make sure my children survive.” 

Losing her battle with the tears pooling in her eyes, Hermione turned to Kings. “I’m only going to ask this one more time, Kingsley. What do we need to do?”

Kingsley and Merrythought exchanged a glance, and the latter waved at the peg board again, a new section materialising.

_Media Appearance_

“We appeal to the kidnapper via Wizavision. It’s clear that they want to oust the Malfoys to the wizarding world.” Merrythought frowned, rubbing a hand over the rough stubble on his jaw. “But we need to play this on our terms while _also_ appearing as though we’re playing into their hands.”

Beside her, Malfoy’s hand wound into a tightly clenched fist. “What good will that do? Those are hours our children could be—”

“We’ll do it,” Hermione interrupted, placing her hand overtop Malfoy’s. “And I presume that you’ll be doing something to further the investigation while we play the poor, pleading parents for the media?”

Kinglsey’s lips flattened into a dissatisfied line. “We’ll be interviewing any witnesses at the scene. Mr. Potter’s wife, for starters. She’s a strong, capable witch. Anyone who broke into the home had to have knowledge of the inhabitants and the layout of the house. Though that significantly narrows our suspect list, I imagine they’ll have taken steps to ensure as cumbersome a search as possible.”

Malfoy pulled his hand from beneath Hermione’s, drumming his fingertips atop the table as she looked on. “And I suppose this is the part where you tell me it’s time for the Malfoys to come out of hiding?”

Barely containing the self-satisfied smile on his lips, Merrythought nodded. “Off with the glamours, Malfoy. It’s time the wizarding world knows the Death Eater seduced Gryffindor’s Princess.”

* * *

Draco abhorred suits. 

He hated the way they clung to his body and restricted his motions no matter how expertly tailored they were, but perhaps even worse was the _cheap_ suit that Kingsley had sent over that matched his rough proportions; the Minister had deemed it _unwise_ return to their home to obtain clothing.

It wasn’t, however, up to his mother’s standards of highly tailored, so she immediately set about putting it to rights.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that his mother flitted about, pinning the sleeves and trousers, muttering about his father at Draco’s age.

After far too long fussing for Draco’s liking, she stepped back, eyeing him. Her mouth settled into a hard line, unshed tears shining in her eyes. “You don’t have to do this—we’ve got the money. If they want a ransom, then we’ll pay the ransom.”

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face with a tired sigh. “You know as well as I do that they’re not after a ransom mother—they don’t care about our galleons. They want the wizarding world to know we’re still here. They’ve got us right where they want us.”

Draco turned his wand on himself, cinching the suit against his waist in a restrictive hug. 

They’d arranged a press conference on the Wizarding Watch Network, another of Kingsley’s implementations following the war. The press conference was scheduled to begin in half an hour.

Only thirty minutes until the whole of the wizarding world knew he was alive. 

More than anything, he warred with the guilt that settled, a lead stone, in his stomach. It was his fault—all of it. The children’s kidnapping. Granger’s hot and cold reception of him. His mother’s magic-less existence. If he’d swallowed his pride and faced the punishment he deserved for his part in the war, he might have earned the life he had instead of taking that choice from Granger. 

Shame mixed inextricably with the guilt. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever earn her back, but he would be damned if he didn’t try.

Steeling his spine, he reached for the whisky on the drinks trolley next to his desk, his fingers caressing the worn stopper in its top, before he thought better of it.

He was already on thin ice with his wife. Showing up to a press briefing smelling of whisky while they pleaded for their children’s safety would certainly only earn him further ire. Wrapping the top of it with his knuckles, he turned away just as the opening of the door alerted him to Granger’s presence.

“Thirty minutes until the press conference goes live.” Hermione wore a smart navy dress, the one he’d always admired for the way it complimented her lithe frame and rich skin tone. 

She paced before the door, her hands fluttering over her skirt to smooth it for the umpteenth time. A halo of hair frizzed around her head, and Draco swore it grew by the moment. Her unease was palpable, setting his teeth on edge.

He had to fight the urge to settle his hands familiarly on the curve of her hips as he’d done so many times before to comfort her.

“What do you need me to do?” he uttered, his voice barely above a whisper. 

She approached him, chewing on her lip. He’d always marvelled at her ability to appear so put together even when he knew she was falling apart inside.

A pang resonated through him when he realised that he was the one to land her here, shoulders drawn tight and proud as she approached him. She hadn’t looked at him with such disappointment since before the war.

He’d do anything to erase that expression from her face.

She gave him a wide berth, pacing in a circle around him as she muttered to herself. When she finally stopped before him, she huffed an ironic laugh. “It’s a wonder I didn’t see it before.”

Confusion drew his brows together. “See what?”

Gesturing at him, Hermione withdrew her wand. “The enchantments. They’re quite well done, but there are faults in them.” With a lifted brow, she stepped into his space. Her wand traced through his hair, lifting the part that he’d painstakingly trained to the opposite side to hide the— “A patch of silver-blond here. Really should have been my first clue.” A private smile—the one she reserved for him alone—lifted her lips, eyes darting to his before she stepped back, expression clouding again. “I thought it was the stress of the job. But I suppose that was a facade too.”

Guilt clenched in his chest, a vice grip on his heart stealing his breath away. 

Swallowing his pride, he peered up at her. “Can you remove them? The enchantments?”

Her movements were clipped as she stepped forward, regarding him as though she could see through the facade he’d worn for so long. Responding with a simple, “I can,” she lifted her wand once more, training it steadily on his chest. 

And then she hesitated.

Several emotions chased across her face, but only one stood out to Draco.

Sorrow. Deep, unabashed sorrow settled into the miniscule lines around her eyes that he was sure had sprang up overnight. He allowed her this moment to grieve, to say goodbye to the man she’d known and loved all these years, and he felt it too; James would never exist again. The mask he’d worn had allowed him so much—had _given_ him so much. His wife, his family… his freedom. And although the moment would be over too quickly, he knew that it was one they both would remember the rest of their days. 

Her lips tightened into a thin line and she shook herself, flicking her eyes up to his. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—” Heaving in a deep breath, she tried again. “I can do this alone. If you leave now, you can find someplace to lie low. The wizarding public is likely to—”

Perhaps it was from so long of living with her, but Draco found a tiny shred of courage buried and stepped forward, settling his hand over hers. The tiny puff of air against his chest reignited some hope—infinitesimal and fleeting—that their relationship might be salvageable. “I’m not going anywhere, Granger,” he reiterated. They’re my children, too. I’m the reason they’re in this mess.” 

For all the courage he felt in her presence, for every memory he conjure of them laughing together, her repeated assurances that she loved him, he couldn’t look at her when he uttered, “And when all this is over—when the kids are safe and we know why this is happening—I promise to fix it.”

She didn’t pull away, and he chanced a glance at her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears, and his heart clenched in her throat as she gave a slight nod and squeezed his hand.

Slowly, he stepped into her space, lifting a hand to ghost his knuckles across her cheekbone. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess.” His stomach flip-flopped when she leaned into his touch. It wasn’t a nuzzle, but it also wasn’t an outright rebuke. “But I’m not sorry for the family we made out of it. For the kids. And I’m not sorry for lo—”

Her whole body seized, and she stepped back out of the safety of his hold. “Don’t. Not now. Not until the kids are safe. Then… maybe then we can figure out what this means for us.”

His heart clenched. She hadn’t ruled it out then. The possibility of there being a life in which there was still an “us” to go back to. Even as his heart dipped in his chest, he nodded, accepting her limits. “Understood.” He gestured to her wand. “Just do it, then.” 

Without further discussion, she nodded, straightening her spine with a steadying shake. 

Her work wasn’t audible, but her lips moved rapidfire over spells as her free hand drifted upright before her. A familiar tingle settled over him, ensconcing Draco in its warmth, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his witch.

The force of the magic stirred up a light breeze around them, lifting the billowing curls off her shoulders and sending them dancing around her face. Her lips turned up in a wistful smile as she worked, removing thirteen years worth of enchantments.

They fell away like heavy blankets. Each layer was woven into the next, carefully interlaced together to resist a wayward _Finite_ _Incantatem._ As she removed them, he felt the way his body changed, the way he seemed to ease back into his body like comfortable garments he’d found hidden in the back of his closet; he felt as though he could _breathe_ again, the weight of the magic and guilt inextricably linked.

The road forward wouldn’t be easy, but removing the enchantments felt like the first step towards redemption.

Hermione worked in silence, a slight sheen on her brow impressing on Draco just how complex these enchantments were.

Finally, when the last enchantment slipped away and his hair fell over his shoulders in soft, fine waves, Hermione stepped back, a long, slow breath escaping her as she saw him for the first time in over a decade.

_Truly_ saw him for who he was.

He expected anger. He waited for her to lash out, to throw something at him, hex him into the next decade or berate him as she had been so adept at in their school days. The proof of his betrayal stood before her, but instead of anger or hatred, a sad smile tilted weakly upwards.

“It’s a shame, you know. You’re really quite handsome.” 

Air rushed out of him as though he’d been punched in the gut. It was as simple as that. All these years of worrying what Granger would think, of being sure of her rejection if she knew, waved away as though it was nothing.

He opened his mouth to respond, but his mother rushed to him, wrapping him tightly in her arms with a sobbing gasp. Tears glittered in her eyes as she held him at arm’s length, hands sliding up his arms to smooth over his hair. “You look so much like your father,” she whispered, jaw trembling.

His father. He’d once lived for that comparison, striving to be everything that his father had asked of him, but now the comparison made him sick. Breaking eye contact, he whispered, “Please, cut it. The hair. I want it gone.” 

Expecting an argument, he held stock still, but Narcissa obliged with only a small sniffle, stepping aside to allow Hermione back into his space. Again, her wand lifted, slicing through the locks with a whispered, “ _Diffindo_.” 

Just as she was to walk out the door to the awaiting reporters and the Wizarding Broadcasting Corporation network cameras, Hermione glanced over her shoulder towards him, her gait faltering. “You’re not your father, James— ” A pause, sucking her lip between her teeth once more before she continued. “ _Draco._ I know you; you’re a good man.”

Then she was gone, flash bulbs and clamouring questions erupting as soon as she disappeared through the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Hermione and Draco learn their children have been kidnapped and receive a letter demanding the Malfoys (Draco and Narcissa) in exchange for their children's safe return. There is no violence, but a heightened sense of emotional distress is an undercurrent throughout the chapter. If this content could be triggering for you, please move forward with caution; if you are not able to read further, I understand and thank you for reading this far at all! 
> 
> A quick note: Wizavision and Wizarding Broadcasting Corporation was a wonderful contribution from QuinTalon when I begged for help in a Facebook group when I couldn't come up with anything—thank you, Quin! Once more, a million thanks to my wonderful alphabet—In Dreams, niffizzle, LadyKenz347, and farmulousa—for their invaluable assistance on this fic. Go read their writing; you won't regret it! Until next Thursday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update today! We're house hunting, so I'll be out and about until late this evening, but I didn't want to skip an update. Thank you all for your continued love on this fic <3

**Chapter 5**

Draco couldn’t get Granger’s look of haunted shock out of his mind when she returned from the press briefing. 

The world knew he was alive, and suddenly nothing felt safe anymore. Not that it mattered; all that mattered to him was Granger and his children.

Granger paced the length of Grimmauld Place’s living room as though wearing a hole in the dusty old carpet would get her one step closer to locating Elara and Archer. 

Shifting, Draco narrowed his eyes at the Head Auror staring him down from his casual repose against the fireplace.

This tosser, though… Draco couldn’t wait to shake him.

As if sensing his sudden attention, the man looked up, a derisive glare colouring his features. “I don’t trust you,” Merrythought provoked.

“Rest assured the feeling is mutual,” Draco shot back, rubbing his thumb across his lower jaw. “Shouldn’t you be leading this interrogation?” 

Merrythought sneered down at him. “Typically I would, but since one of the wizarding world’s most wanted fugitives is directly involved with the case, my role has been superseded by the Minister.” His nostrils flared as he added, “My duty is to keep an eye on _you_.” 

An indelicate snort left Draco’s lips. “So you’ve been demoted to babysitting duty.”

“You’ll watch your tone with me, Malfoy,” the Auror snarled, crossing the room in two short strides. He wrenched Draco out of the chair, pinning him to the wall with a thick forearm beneath his chin. He applied just enough pressure that Draco’s gaze tinged darkly around the edges, his breath gusting out of him in a wheeze. “You’d do well to remember that your fate is nebulous at the moment.”

“ _Merrythought_!” Hermione’s gasp of indignation shattered the moment, and Merrythought stepped back, his arm falling to his side. The witch flew across the room, fury lighting up her eyes in the most alluring way. “What do you think you’re doing? He is—” She halted awkwardly, jaw working before she plowed on. “He is the father of my children and _you_ are an Auror tasked with helping us track them down. Grow up. _Both_ of you.”

Air rushed back into his lungs so quickly he saw stars, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from her.

Hermione stepped back, straightening her khaki suit trousers and work blouse. “Cho is distressed enough as it is—we can’t have the two of you acting like children when we’re trying to _save_ children.” Her face softened incrementally when she turned to Draco. “Can you _please_ be on your best behaviour? I’m not asking you to like him.”

Guilt immediately shot through his core, though it did nothing to dispel the ire he felt for Merrythought leering at him over Hermione’s shoulder. “Alright,” he agreed with a singular nod of his head. “But once we find the kids—”

A bewildered laugh left Hermione, and for a moment, everything was right in the world. She was staring at him with that secret smile he knew so well, her hand fluttering out to cup his own for the briefest moment, and then her face fell, her walls shooting back up as surely as though they’d never fallen.

“You’ll get _one_ shot at him—after we find the kids,” she acquiesced with a small grin. “But no maiming,” she added over her shoulder.

As Hermione walked away, Merrythought whistled under his breath. “You don’t deserve that witch.” 

The small moment of levity shattered. Despite the rage that swept through him at Merrythought checking out his wife, for the first time since meeting him, Draco agreed with him. “I’m well aware.” 

The trek across the room in Granger’s wake wasn’t a long one—and one which he had become familiar with in his years of friendship with the Potters—but he felt far more vulnerable than he ever had before in the home.

Without the guise of James, Draco was exposed, and the prying eyes of portraits and the wizards in the room seemed to strip him bare. 

“Cho, I know it’s difficult, but I’m not angry with you. You couldn’t have done anything to stop an assault you weren’t expecting, especially not an ambush in your own home.” Hermione crouched before Cho, taking the woman’s hands in her own. “You don’t have to be upset.”

“ _Upset_?” Cho’s face contorted into a sneer. “I’m furious. Your children were attacked in my home while I was mere rooms away. I feel guilty, sure, but more than that, I’m furious. The nerve of this person… I—”

Potter clasped his hand over his wife’s shoulder, briefly meeting Draco’s gaze before he spoke to her. “They don’t blame you, love. There’s far more going on here than it appears we’re aware of.” 

The accusation in his tone stung, but the disdain weighing Harry’s shoulders down hit harder. Draco hadn’t liked the man in their Hogwarts years, but as adults, they’d forged a friendship.

It seemed, however, that Harry was not keen on a friendship with Draco Malfoy.

Clearing his throat, Draco offered, “It’s alright, Cho.” 

Confliction flashed across the woman’s features, but she sat upright, shaking out her shoulders. “James—” She faltered, avoiding the way Draco leaned in towards the name, a learned habit from his years under cover. “James _Sirius_ saw the intruder. He didn’t get a good look at them though. He said they were all shimmery, like a mirage.”

Merrythought and Hermione exchanged a glance. “Disillusionment charm, most likely,” the Auror murmured.

“Clearly,” Draco groused, turning back to the Potters. “Can you tell us what else you remember?” 

Cho recounted the morning to the lot of them. “Honestly, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.” She turned to Granger, eyes wide. “I don’t know what happened, Hermione, I swear. One minute everything was fine, the kids were playing Gobstones while I was preparing breakfast. The next, the wards alerted me to a breach and someone stunned me before I could make it out of the kitchen. When I woke up, Harry and the rest of the Aurors had already arrived.”

Kingsley jotted the information down in a flip-top notebook that Harry had left discarded on the side table. “Mrs. Potter, do you remember what time it was when you were alerted that the wards had been compromised?”

Draco watched the way Cho worried her lip, eyes glazing as she thought back. “Maybe half past ten? It wasn’t long after the children had arrived. Like I said, I was preparing breakfast. lara and Archer were playing with Albus and James in the den. I didn’t even get a chance to go downstairs.”

Harry’s brows knit together. “Whoever it was, they knew the house well enough to be able to get in quickly without wasting time for Cho to alert the Aurors.”

The woman stood, wringing her hands nervously. “Honestly, if I’d have had the chance, I would have defended them.” A couple tears slipped free and slid down her cheeks. 

The emotional display unnerved Draco—still unused to how forthcoming those raised outside of strict pure-blood ideology were—but Hermione shook her head, briefly embracing the woman. “We’ve been friends for years, Cho—and even if we hadn’t been, I remember your proficiency with a blasting spell well. There’s a reason Harry couldn’t take his eyes off you during Dumbledore’s Army practice, yeah?”

Grateful admiration shone in Cho’s eyes. “Thanks, Hermione.” She chewed on her lip again. “But what will you do? You have no leads; I haven’t provided you anything of substance.” 

Though Draco opened his mouth to reassure the witch and quiet his own turbulent thoughts, creaking footsteps led the way into the sitting room, and a familiar blond-haired prat appeared in the doorway.

Cormac McLaggen surveyed the room, searching for something. When his gaze landed on Hermione, he brightened for just a moment before schooling his expression. “Granger, I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Before any of them could respond, he turned and stalked back the way he came, Hermione hot on his heels. 

Hermione followed Cormac through the dark halls of Grimmauld Place, mind whirring with possibilities.

“How much do you know about the Black family tapestry?” Cormac called over his shoulder.

Grimacing, Hermione admitted, “Not as much as I’d like. I’m aware that there are replicas in the residences of each surviving member of the Black line, but it’s difficult magic to perform. It’s a dying practice.” 

“That’s correct,” Cormac agreed, “although I don’t need to tell you that; it helps to talk through it aloud.” He ducked beneath a cobweb hanging low from the ceiling. The one area of the house that Cho hadn’t renovated due to the amount of relics from dark magic they’d not yet been able to purge despite Unspeakable involvement. “What’s unusual about this is that the magic typically has to be conducted on _individual_ tapestries. It’s a sort of fail safe to make sure there are no forgeries.”

Nodding, Hermione finished, “So, in theory, this tapestry should reflect the reality of Malfoy’s existence. It will show he is alive, whereas the tapestry in the Malfoy family home listed a false death date.” 

Cormac threw a grin at her over his shoulder when he walked into the drawing room. “Correct again. You know, we really could use your expertise over in the—”

“The point, if you please, Cormac?” Hermione interrupted, well aware of the glare Malfoy bored into Cormac’s head from over her shoulder.

A hint of a chastised flush stained Cormac’s cheeks, but he gestured to the tapestry. “Like I said, I think it’s best you saw this for yourself.” 

Irritation at his secrecy rankled her nerves, but Hermione brushed past him, studying the length of it.

“It looks just as the photograph did,” she murmured. “But how is that possible? They’d have had to conduct the same charms on this—”

“They know the house—they’ve been here before,” Malfoy interrupted, stepping into the room in their wake. “ _Appare Vestigium.”_ Almost as though they’d been conjured out of thin air, faint golden footprints appeared on the worn flooring, leading back from whence they’d come.

It was a rather impressive bit of magic—and one Hermione herself wasn’t familiar with—but the implications of the spell itself were not lost on her.

Malfoy stared down at his wand, undiluted joy rippling over his features for a split second. His fingertips flexed on his wand like he was fighting the urge to cast another bout of magic.

She couldn’t imagine going so long without using her wand, and a pang of sympathy shot through her.

“How long?” she asked.

His head snapped up, brows ticking down in question as he schooled his expression. 

Tipping her head at his wand, she asked again. “How long since you’ve used magic?”

“Not long,” he responded, then thought better of the statement and added, “I practiced wandless magic. Nothing major, and never when you or the kids were home.” His jaw worked once more, and his final confession was quieter. “I didn’t want to forget.” 

There was a stark honesty in his tone that Hermione wasn’t altogether familiar with, and just as she was about to offer him a modicum of support, a throat cleared behind her, jarring her from his gaze.

Cormac rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head. “I hate to be that person, but—”

“No, no you’re right.” Hermione turned hesitantly towards the tapestry while she waved her wand in a complex series of arcs and twists while muttering under her breath. 

It appeared just as she remembered it from her youth, those long afternoons she had spent holed up in the house with the Order and later on the run with Harry and Ron. Large swaths of the fabric were still seared away, cracked panelling visible beneath the interwoven branches and tattered ivory fabric.

Beneath her wand, an intricate layer of magical signatures coiled outwards. The newest lines were vibrant, shimmering golden with still-living magic humming at a low-level frequency. As they traced backwards, the magic settled into a deep, true amethyst, its near-permanence settling into the fabric.

“These lines represent the magic which has been woven into the tapestry,” she stated, turning over her shoulder to address both Malfoy and Cormac. “The older it is, the less fluid it is, making it more difficult to alter.” 

Malfoy stepped alongside her, his own fingers tracing the magic. “It’s been said the Black family line can be traced to the Middle Ages.” A wry smile pulled at his lips. “However, there are large swaths of history that _aren’t_ reflected in this tapestry.”

Cormac snorted. “Yours wouldn’t be the first pure-blood family to falsify the purity of their ancestry, Malfoy.”

“No, but that’s what makes this all the more intriguing,” Hermione answered, ignoring the way Malfoy cocked his brow at her. “The Black family has been keeping meticulous records of their lineage for centuries save for those which they considered blights. For example, Muggles were kept from the family record as in the case with Iola Black.”

Malfoy nodded, eyeing the charred spot where Iola ought to have been. “Her husband, Bob Hitchens should be here.” 

“And there’s not a hint of his name here, but the magic is flawless. Whereas here”—she crossed in front of Cormac, crouching down so that the portion on which Malfoy and his mother’s face peered back at her was at eye level—“there’s almost… a wrinkle? Like the caster wasn’t confident or didn’t know the spell.”

“Or they wanted to be caught,” Malfoy interjected. His shoulders were suddenly tense, a severe set to his jaw as he knelt alongside her. “May I?” 

Waving her hands, she stepped aside, allowing him to investigate.

Fixated on the tapestry as he was, Hermione could study Malfoy. 

Whether his appearance had uncovered the mannerisms or she’d always ignored them, she instantly recognized the careful way he held himself. An almost aristocratic tightness to his shoulders was the only sign of his discomfiture in her presence, but his face was carefully blank. 

In age, he’d lost the harsh sharpness of his features, the angular curve of his jaw speckled by short blond stubble flecked through with grey. More than anything, though, he looked tired.

Not in the physical sense, and there wasn’t anything overly indicative of any overexertion, but his shoulders drooped inward just _so_ , like there was a weight on them he couldn’t quite bare alone, and his lips were pulled tightly into a serious frown as he gently traced his fingertips over the branches that connected his mother and himself to his father’s line.

All tells she recognised from James—she could sense his anguish as though it were her own.

Clearing her throat, she approached the tapestry, standing alongside him. “What do you see?”

He startled, his gaze snapping to hers, and he allowed silence to extend between them before he answered. “This here,” he said, tracing the smooth lines of the blasting mark on the tapestry, “doesn’t make sense. It’s melodramatic, but the Black family likes their theatrics. We should have been aware that this was altered. ” 

Hermione frowned, ticking her head to the side to study the tapestry. After a moment, the implication clicked. “It’s linked to your magic?” she guessed, turning towards him. “Whatever is done to the tapestry—you feel it?”

He nodded once, a tight, uncomfortable motion. “That is the rumour, yes.” He traced over the line once more, lingering on the charred place where he was to have been. “But I didn’t feel anything. That’s how I know—whoever completed this magic, they linked the tapestries. The magic was only completed once—the initial spell on the tapestry in Malfoy Manor—whoever completed this didn’t realise that linking the tapestries would weaken the magic.” 

Cocking her head to the side, Hermione trained her wand on the tapestry. “ _Aparecium_.”

Nothing happened.

Behind them, Cormac made a noise in the back of his throat. “I’ll find the Minister to update him on the status of the investigation.”

Humming at his comment, Hermione stepped towards the wall, fingers fanning over the tapestry once more. She focused, sending tendrils of exploratory magic rippling over her skin as she traced the identical death dates beneath Narcissa and Malfoy’s images. “It’s layered, almost like one charm wasn’t enough to alter its appearance.”

“It wouldn’t be.”

Hermione and Malfoy both started, turning towards the door.

With an involuntary step backwards, Hermione eyed the newcomer with distrust.

Narcissa stood in the shadows of the doorway, her hands clasped before her. “Hermione. You look well.” The woman cringed, amending her statement. “As well as you can, all things considered. Young Mister McLaggen pointed me in the correct direction, although it wasn’t needed.” She sniffed haughtily. 

“Narcissa.” Hermione tried to temper some of the disdain in her voice. 

Narcissa inclined her head, but Hermione didn’t miss the hurt that flickered in the woman’s eyes. “I fear that my apologies would fall on deaf ears, so I will save them for a time when we aren’t racing to save the lives of those for which we both care.” 

Grateful for the momentary ceasefire, Hermione gestured for her to continue. “What about the family tree?”

Narcissa ceded, her skirts swirling around her ankles as she crossed the room with her hands still clasped before her. “The magic on this tapestry is old and ancestral. Without proper training, one is unable to make convincing changes to its appearance.”

Hermione sniffed before she could stop herself, a mannerism so similar to Narcissa’s that she immediately regretted it. “We’ve established that.”

Narcissa offered her a rare, genuine smile. “As I should have expected.”

“What we don’t understand is why this one is so obviously a duplicate when the one at the Manor was convincing enough that it didn’t raise any alarms with the Ministry,” Hermione said, swallowing her pride.

Understanding flit over the woman’s face. “Duplicated as it is by its link to the tapestry in the Manor, this magic is a poor imitation,” she said, tilting her nose to the ceiling. “As the remaining Black heir, I was to teach the next pure-blood woman in our familial line the necessary magic to alter it.”

Frustration roiled over Hermione’s skin, followed by a distinct flickering hurt. “Well, it appears as though that will have to wait.”

“You misunderstand me,” Narcissa stated. “It is tradition, yes, for a pure-blood to alter the tapestry, but you must realise by now that neither I nor my son hold such antiquated beliefs anymore.”

Sniffing, Hermione held her tongue, instead focusing on the task at hand. “We can have this discussion later. Do you have any idea who would want to blackmail you or your family?”

“ _Our_ family,” Malfoy corrected.

Narcissa’s eyes tightened. “There have been rumours, quiet but insidious, that someone is staging a coup. Death Eaters long thought dead or in permanent hiding have been spotted throughout the wizarding world. Never near London and never for long.”

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione challenged the woman. “How do you know these rumours? You’ve been in hiding—”

“A pure-blood witch has connections, regardless of the skin she wears,” Narcissa interrupted, cutting her gaze to Hermione. “Once you are privy to the underground channels through which information disseminates for… less than savoury company, you do not lose access. Particularly not when your surname holds such prestige.”

The response felt like a thorough lashing, and Hermione nodded, trying in vain to quell the knot winding in her stomach. “If they were, then _The Prophet_ or the Ministry would have—”

“Would they? What would the Ministry stand to gain if they announced that an unknown assailant was orchestrating the return of Death Eaters?” Narcissa’s face was impassive and cold. “The wizarding world is still rebuilding. You’ll remember that Voldemort’s rise was nearly twelve years after his first defeat. The Ministry is wary.”

Malfoy stiffened. “But why would they hide it? It only serves to incite more fear should it come to light.”

“Men are not faultless, my dear,” Narcissa answered, cutting her gaze away from the tapestry to glance between them. “Whoever is arranging this has laid the board the way they want it; they have orchestrated this to their benefit. Every last detail, from my and Draco’s escape to the children’s disappearance has been meticulously planned to frame Malfoy as the one responsible.”

Realisation clicked in Hermione’s mind. “They want the spotlight off them; it makes it easier for them to do as they need without drawing attention to themselves.”

Narcissa nodded in a succinct confirmation. “That is correct. I fear they’ve… what is the common phrase? Pulled one over on us?” 

Malfoy whirled to Hermione, expression both relieved and terrified. “The children are a distraction—they’re not in any real danger if they’re just a distraction.”

Grim determination settled in Hermione’s gut, and she took off towards the staircase, Malfoy in her wake. “They’re a distraction, but that also means they’re expendable.” She paused at the stop of the staircase, throwing a demand over her shoulder. “I’ll notify the Ministry; we need to figure out this tapestry as soon as possible.”

Narcissa accompanied them, their feet pattering down the stairs in a unison of ungraceful haste. “What would you have me do?” the elder witch questioned, a pucker settling between her brows as they raced towards the kitchen.

“Lucius is no longer the master of the Manor, correct?” Hermione queried, passing Cho staring out the window with drawn shoulders.

Narcissa clucked. “Correct, but the Manor is no longer possessed by the Malfoy household, living or dead. The Ministry seized the land and all the possessions for reparations. 

“Good,” Hermione stated, continuing on at the disbelieving drop of Narcissa’s jaw. “It will be easier to get on the grounds when they’re government property—I believe the investigation will quickly shift towards one of domestic terror with the information we provide them. And we need to get to that tapestry.”

Narcissa wrapped her hand around Hermione’s wrist, drawing her to a harsh stop just beyond the foyer. Kingsley’s unintelligible words washed over them as Narcissa hissed, “What is the meaning of this, Hermione? What do you think will be there that was not—”

“You said it yourself; the Malfoy family tapestry contains the original magic. It can only be examined at its source.” Hermione forcibly extricated her hand from Narcissa’s grasp. “If we’re to save our children—if we’re to stop whoever it is that has started this—then we need to root out the source.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my wonderful team of alphabet for their help on this fic: niffizzle, LadyKenz347, In Dreams, and farmulousa


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

With a crack, Hermione landed on fresh, green grass, just outside the village in Wiltshire.

Malfoy Manor stood at a distance, the whole of its grounds wrapped in a shroud of indistinguishable fog. 

A series of follow-up pops announced the presence of her companions and she turned, tipping her chin towards the grounds.

“How long has it been like this?” Hermione asked, trepidation skittering up her spine at the sight of the estate.

Kingsley followed her gaze, hand disappearing into his robes to loosen his wand from its holster. “Since we took possession of the home following the war. We were able to access the grounds for approximately one week following the signing of the deeds; most of the magical artefacts that were able to be removed from the house remain in Ministry possession.

“And those that weren't?” she asked, wrinkling her brow.

Malfoy answered for Kingsley, voice low and serious. “Still within the home. ‘That which cannot be removed or altered by any other than one whose bloodline flows pure,’” he quoted with a sour turn of his lip. He glanced at her. “An old Malfoy family specialty. It will be dangerous; there are hexes on the home that target Muggleborns. You would be safer to remain here and—”

“Absolutely not,” she responded, already trekking along the broken path towards the ancestral home. “If there is even the slightest possibility that it will provide answers, I’m going in there.”

A furrow worked its way over Malfoy’s face. “Don’t be a fucking Gryffindor about it—” Hermione recoiled from the ire in his voice and he softened incrementally. “You’ll do no good to them dead, Granger.” 

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I’ll be careful. No rash moves.”

Malfoy worried his lip and then turned towards the Aurors assembled behind him, who stared at him with their hands clasped on their wands. 

His shoulders stiffened defensively. “I know the home intimately,” he pointed out, “and I know that most of you would rather rake through a pile of hippogriff shit than listen to a former Death Eater, but I promise that you’re more likely to survive this encounter if you follow my lead. Do not go anywhere unless you’ve been expressly told that it is safe. If you have any doubts, send up flares immediately.”

Kingsley nodded, though Merrythought curled his lip. “And how are we to know you’re not intentionally sending us to our deaths?”

Malfoy bristled, but Hermione took point, glaring Merrythought down as she growled, “If either of us die, then it’s very likely our children will not survive. We already have the whole of the wizarding world chomping at the bit to see us executed for perceived betrayals.” 

At their sheepish silence, she turned back towards the manor. “Now, we need to get into that house. Malfoy is the only one of us who knows the exact layout of both the home and any potential curses that were placed on it over the centuries to keep people like me out. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, his gaze straight forward with a frustrated pinch to his lips. “As I have already stated.”

Hermione ignored the jab, choosing to motion him forwards instead. “We’ll be right behind you. I’ll sweep for anything to your right; Merrythought, you sweep to his left.” When neither of the men made a move to complain, she addressed the remaining men behind them. “Kings, I’ll send a Patronus when we get the all clear.”

He dipped his head, but she didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered with mirth at the directive. “We’ll be awaiting your signal.”

For a brief moment, Merrythought looked as though he might challenge the authority Kingsley granted her on the matter, but he wisely chose to mash his lips together, and they took off across the grounds in tandem.

Wand held aloft before her, Hermione carefully strode forwards, trying to quiet the fear that was in the pit of her stomach. Since the war, she’d hated going anywhere she couldn’t see clearly—situational anxiety, a side effect of sustained proximity to Dementors, according to her mind healer. Still, she managed to quell the voices in her head that threatened to swallow her whole as they strode.

“Ahead and to the left is the rose garden,” Draco murmured. “In the fourteenth century, Nicholas Malfoy had the garden installed, but interwoven in the hedges is a particularly nasty genus of Devil’s Snare that seeks out those with Muggle heritage.”

A shiver worked its way down Hermione’s spine. “That’s barbaric.”

“That’s pure-blood culture in the thirteen hundreds,” he returned, sweeping his wand in a careful arc before him. “I didn’t say it was right; it’s just the fact of the matter. You’ll want to avoid it.” 

Hermione stiffened, his tone putting her on edge. A careful twist of her wand revealed no human traces before her. “I wasn’t aware that wizards were able to cultivate a sentient genus of the plant.”

“Semi-sentient,” Malfoy corrected with an apologetic grimace. “Just like others in its genus, it primarily seeks movement.”

Frowning, Hermione cast another revealing charm. “So what makes it different from traditional Devil’s Snare?”

“The thorns,” he answered, raising his hand and bringing their small group to a halt. With a muttered spell she didn’t recognise, Malfoy banished a nondescript statue with a shriek. “Pogrebin. Anyways,” he continued, beginning the journey towards the manor again, “it was bred to thrive especially on Muggle-born blood, almost like a fertiliser.”

Her nose wrinkled at the grim image that flickered through her mind. “That’s… morbid at best and downright demented at worst.”

“Says the one who keeps a plant that tried to strangle me in my sleep,” Malfoy muttered as he carefully swept the landscape.

A scoff escaped her as she nudged his side. “Well, if you hadn’t offended it, then it wouldn’t have tried to kill you. The magical genus of Devil’s Ivy is a very vain plant.”

From Malfoy’s other side, Merrythought scoffed dramatically. “If you two don’t mind, you can discuss the moral implications of semi-sentient killer plants another day. We’re here to ensure the two of you can manage to safely get into the manor.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re quite possibly the most unpleasant person on earth?” Malfoy snapped, gesturing towards the door of the manor to which they’d arrived unharmed. “I think we’re fine to discuss the—”

The threshold of the door flickered, and Hermione threw out a shield instinctively. Her shouted, “Malfoy,  _ wait _ !” echoed around them just as his hand hit the invisible barrier. 

With a roar, a brilliant flash erupted on the other side of her shield, crimson light enveloping where they stood and immediately vanishing. On the outside of the shield, a ring of scorched earth marked where it had collided with the ground. 

“Case in point,” Merrythought drawled, a pleased little smile tilting his lips even as he glared at them both. “Now if you don’t mind—”

“That curse isn’t original to the home,” Malfoy responded, ticking his wand in evaluation. “And it didn’t appear with surveillance magic, so there’s a high probability that it was intentionally placed to catch us off guard. It was spelled for singular use. Whoever set it knew that we would be coming.” 

Without waiting for a response from either of them, Malfoy faced the ancestral home again and unwarded the doorway. 

Hermione followed closely behind as the door creaked open, revealing the pristine walls of Malfoy Manor. It hadn’t changed since her last visit save a thick layer of dust over most of the interior.

“Whoever was here was careful to cover their tracks,” Hermione assessed, carving her wand through the air in meticulous arcs. “Do you think they placed the hex on the door as a warning?”

Before her, Malfoy lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s possible. The person who casted it could be the same one who sent us the letter. Or it could be an accomplice. We don’t really have any way to determine intent at this point.”

Merrythought chimed in. “Whoever it was, their magic was clumsy.”

“What gives you that impression?” Malfoy scoffed, turning back over his shoulder. “That spell could have disemboweled any of us just as easily as you or I could.”

Tipping his head in acquiescence, Merrythought answered, “You’re not wrong, but it lacked finesse. They could have altered it to be more precise; instead, it was a flash, faster than a blink. In theory, a witch or wizard could have survived. They would have sustained serious injury,” he said over Malfoy’s noises of protest, “but it’s unlikely to have killed multiple wizards in one go.”

“And they would be naive to think we’d come without Aurors,” Hermione added, sucking her lip between her teeth. “So it was probably used to slow us down or alert them to our presence. Just like any other charms we encounter.”

“That is correct, yes.” The Auror surveyed the grand stairs leading towards the upper levels. “You know the exact route to the library?”

Lip curling up in a sneer, Malfoy answered, “Obviously.”

“Good. We’ll go straight there, and I’ll lead the way.” Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Merrythought lifted a hand at her. “No complaints. I don’t think this person is out to kill you—if they were, they’d have already done so. They want attention, and they want you to waste time.” 

Bitter agreement settled in the pit of her stomach, and she managed a short, stiff nod. “We’ll follow behind. Straight to the library, then.”

“Straight to the library. Once you’re safely inside, I’ll ward the doors. Only the two of you will be able to leave. Do  _ not  _ attempt to leave without verbal confirmation from myself or Minister Shacklebolt that the house is clear. Understood?”

She and Malfoy nodded in unison.

“Good. Confirmation will come only in the form of a Patronus. Anything else is to be considered suspicious and should be reported upon reconvening,” Merrythought added, then began up the stairs, wand held aloft before him and a grimace firmly in place.

She exchanged a look with Malfoy—who wore his contempt like a cloak—and followed the Auror up the stairs into the bowels of the home. 

* * *

The trek to the second floor library was comparatively uneventful. Malfoy managed to banish a Boggart he’d warned them of outside the servants’ quarters on the eastern wing, and Hermione had tripped a minor blasting charm that destroyed some truly hideous vases, but no other magic seemed to lie in wait for them in the home.

Hermione would be lying if she said that the notion made her any more comfortable.

Having thoroughly checked the warded room, Merrythought summoned a Patronus and Hermione stifled a giggle when a familiar, squat creature ambled through the air and Merrythought turned a vibrant shade of crimson as he choked out the all clear to the other Aurors.

The flush lingered in his cheeks as he addressed them once more. “No leaving until you receive a Patronus from Kingsley or myself. For  _ any  _ reason,” he added, hand resting on the doorknob. 

Malfoy and Hermione nodded in tandem, and Hermione managed to contain her laughter until the Auror disappeared through the doorway and the door fell shut behind him. “Please tell me you saw that.”

“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the sweet justice of Euan Merrythought’s Patronus being a skunk,” Malfoy quipped, a sharp smile tugging at his lips. 

The brief moment of camaraderie sent a touch of warmth, of familiarity, through Hermione, before he gestured for her to follow him. “The tapestry is along the back wall.”

In just a few long strides, they stopped before a replica of the family tree that resided in Grimmauld Place. Charred blots marked where the same family members had been banished, but the magic here was stronger, more recent.

On instinct, Hermione fanned her fingers out overtop the tapestry, feeling the way the magic interlaid in the threads danced against her own magic. 

As though it were a voice in her head, the magic spoke to her. Sorrow, deep and unabiding, coloured the golden threads shot through with sapphire lines. Desperation, too, was heavy in the magic, driving the casting and informing its intent. 

Surprise washed over her, and she pulled away. “It doesn’t feel dangerous.”

Malfoy aimed an incredulous blink at her. “Pardon me for believing otherwise, Granger. Kidnapping our children and threatening their death is about as dangerous as it gets.” 

A squawk of indignation left her throat. “You don’t understand—I  _ know  _ this magic. It’s the same kind that’s used in every art forgery I’ve ever dealt with.” She closed her eyes, laying her hand overtop his image again. “This kind of magic, it requires intent. Without imbuing intent, it falls flat, the magic fading into obscurity instead of weaving itself into the core of the enchantment.” 

As she spoke, she traced her fingertips over the rough material, analysing its fluctuation as it layered atop the original familial magic. “There’s usually anger, deception, greed interwoven in it, colouring it. They want money, fame, fortune.” 

When she opened her eyes, Malfoy was staring at her. “And you mean to tell me that there’s no anger, no  _ vengeance _ , interwoven in a charm meant to steal my children from me.  _ Our  _ children.”

She shook her head emphatically before he even finished his statement. “No.” Pausing, she corrected herself. “Perhaps  _ some _ , but the overwhelming intent is desperation. Sorrow. Whoever did this, they’re not looking for money or fame or even notoriety. They’re seeking answers.” 

Malfoy blinked twice. “Answers? What kind of answers do they believe they’ll find with children? Archer and Elara don’t hold the answers to anything more than what they want for breakfast, and even then they’re usually just as ambiguous.”

Hermione snorted a laugh. “I don’t know, but I can feel it.” As she moved her fingers, another intense blast of longing swept through her and her eyes snapped open. 

Her fingers rested along the line that connected Draco to Narcissa, and tears stung at her eyes. “It’s to do with your family line. Direct family. Do you know anyone who would use our children against us?” 

Malfoy shook his head once. “No. All my family is either dead or in prison—or in this room.” He refused to meet her gaze. “Can you remove the glamour?”

Hermione chewed on her lip, feeling out the magic once more. “I think so—it will take time and patience. I may not be able to reach a satisfactory answer today. Like with any glamour, I’ll need to ensure there are no counter-curses that will negatively affect the removal. And if I am to seek an answer to the caster’s origin, it will take methodical removal.”

“How long?” Malfoy pushed, eyeing her. “We’ve roughly six days to meet demands in order to get the children back unharmed, and that’s allowing for delays in the delivery of the ransom note.”

Dread unfurled in her core, and Hermione frowned. “To remove the charms? Upwards of twelve hours if I move quickly. To properly trace the origins of the magic… I can’t say.”

“What do you mean, you can't say?” Malfoy’s tone bordered on frantic, and he stepped into her space, cupping her elbows. “Hermione, we have to—”

Both of them froze, suddenly aware of the other's proximity. Hermione stared up into his eyes, taken by the similarity of expressions between his and James’ face. Although they were the same person—one glamoured and the other not—Hermione was struck by the depth of connection she still felt towards Malfoy. 

Taking a deep breath, Hermione took a step backwards, putting a purposeful space between herself and Malfoy. “I will do everything in my power to ensure I work as quickly as I can to save our children—but I will be of no help to anyone if I am dead.”

Malfoy flinched, his jaw working. “Granger, I—”

She turned away, reaching for the wand she’d discarded atop the shelf. “I understand. We love them.” It felt strange, to acknowledge the shared attachment to a child with Malfoy, but when she faced him again, she straightened her shoulders. “I will find the answers we need. But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Colour rose to Malfoy’s cheeks. An unspoken offer settled between them: if he afforded her his trust, she’d do her best to offer him the same. After several beats of silence, he answered with a quick nod. “I can.”

“Thank you.” She felt her shoulders sag, an unacknowledged weight falling from them, and she turned back towards the tapestry. She cleared her throat, facing him once more. “I’ll need a fresh stack of parchment and a quill for notes. And quiet.”

She didn’t see his departure, but Malfoy answered from the door. “I’ll inform the others to stay out of this wing—there is plenty in the rest of the house left to examine. If Merrythought or Kingsley have questions—”

“Answer them as you can. Tell them I’ll update them when I’m able,” she answered, already puzzling through the charms she’d begin with.

The door quietly closed behind her, leaving Hermione alone in the library with the tapestry and her thoughts. 

* * *

When Draco returned hours later, Granger still worked in silence, a stack of heavy parchment at her side on which she took methodical notes.

Despite the lapse in time, she appeared no closer to finding an answer than they had been hours earlier. 

Only the scratch of her quill on the parchment accompanied the quiet ticking of the clock deep in the bowels of the home, and Draco grew increasingly anxious with each moment that passed.

She hadn’t stopped for so much as a drink in hours, and even the small plate of cheese and crackers he’d brought along—her favourite afternoon snack—remained untouched beside her as she worked.

But all through it, Draco couldn’t look away from her. The way her mind worked, the dedication with which she approached the task—he’d always been fascinated by the witch, but witnessing her process firsthand bore an intrigue to which he hadn’t yet been privy. Methodism wasn’t a fair assessment for the way she began at the earliest entry on the tapestry and worked forwards through time. 

After the thirteenth hour, she stilled, a quiet gasp punctuating the silence.

“I’ve got something,” she murmured, her wand hand pausing overtop the tapestry, and Draco pushed up from the chair in which he reclined, ignoring the creak of his bones protesting too long spent in the stationary position.

On the wall, she’d carefully mapped out the threads of magic, and dozens of papers littered the floor around her. Each of them was lined with notes that may as well have been in another language for as little as Draco understood, but he picked up the nearest, trying to decipher it. “What is it?”

She peered up at him, sweat speckling her brow. “You can’t see it?”

Humouring her, he let his gaze roam over the tapestry, following various colours as they faded, one into the next, on the parchment. “I assume the different colours indicate those whose magic altered the tapestry,” he said, a strange sense of pride stealing through him as she nodded encouragingly. “So these will be able to tell us who altered it.”

A frown pulled at her lips. “Well, no. At least, it won’t give us a definitive answer. It could, however, lead us in the right direction.”

“And how will it do that? They’re just colours on paper, strands of light on the tapestry,” he groused, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw in frustration.

“Well, that’s where my expertise comes in,” she pushed up onto her knees, gesturing for the paper that dangled limply from his fingertips. “See, anyone could unravel the strands of interconnected magic if they were patient enough. It just takes time and a bit of care.”

He bit back a retort about her swottiness—he’d learned that one the hard way over the years.

Hermione traced the runes she’d marked on the paper. “This one here? It’s for revelations. Connected with this one—family—”

“I know what they mean, Granger. I did quite well in Ancient Runes, if you remember. Second only to you. Not all of us had the professors applauding our every move and had to work for our marks,” he snipped, shoulders tensing. As soon as the words slipped past his lips, though, he backtracked, rubbing at his eyes. “That wasn’t fair—”

“It wasn’t,” she replied simply, fingers tightening on the scrap of parchment she held. “None of this is, you know.” 

Upon closer inspection, he noticed the glossy sheen to her eyes. Regret soured his stomach. “Granger, I’m sorry. I’m tired and stressed, but you didn’t deserve—”

“To have my entire life turned upside down in a matter of twenty-four hours, leaving me questioning everything I’ve come to know about myself in the last thirteen years?” She sniffed once, swiping at the moisture pooling in her eyes. “You’re right. I don’t deserve that.” 

He couldn’t argue with the assessment, so he clasped her hand over the parchment.

“To that end, I don’t deserve to be the one to clean up  _ your  _ messes again,” she spat, ire rolling off her.

Draco froze, his gaze shooting to the top of her head. “ _ Again _ ? What do you mean by that?”

As if she realised what she’d said, Granger straightened her shoulders and lifted her head. “I spoke for you before the Wizengamot. Harry too. Defended you and your mother so that, if either of you were found, you wouldn’t come back to the wizarding world with charges over your head.”

The confession hit him square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath. Once. Twice. “Granger, why in  _ Merlin’s  _ name would you do something like that?”

She pushed upright, gathering sheaths of parchment from around her in what he assumed was an attempt to busy her hands and avoid looking at him. “Your mother wasn’t a bad woman; you were a victim of your circumstances.” Pausing, she looked at him. “You weren’t— _ aren’t— _ your father, Malfoy, no matter what the surnames might say.”

Her words washed over him, an absolution he didn’t know he’d needed, and he had to blink away the sudden emotion holding his throat hostage. “I know I’m not.” 

A derisive snort answered him. “Then why did you run, Malfoy? You could have had a trial. Could have had a life, wouldn’t have had to hide in the shadows like some—”

“Death Eater filth?” he provided, feeling the profound weight of self loathing settle in his gut.

Hermione sighed, cutting her gaze to him. “I was going to say like a coward, but I think your own assessment says more than mine ever could. Regardless, I’m here once more, helping you clean up the mess you got us into. I’d appreciate if I wasn’t met with resistance at every turn.”

An acidic response lingered on his tongue, but he vacated it, turning back towards the tapestry. “My apologies, Granger,” he ground out, gesturing towards the parchment. “We can argue about the semantics of my failure when our children are no longer bait for a madman.”

“Or woman,” she corrected.

He bristled, cursing Granger and Pansy again, and added, “Or woman. Now would you—”

“Get on with it? Happy to,” she snapped back, once more turning towards the tapestry. “Now, the combination of these runes allowed me to trace the magic through lineage. It doesn’t yield absolute answers, but it’s enough for me to confirm my theories.”

“Which are?”

Granger pushed to her feet, indicating that he should do the same. Following suit, he stood alongside her as he rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. 

She glanced sidelong at him, eyes lingering on the bends of his elbows, before she reiterated, “Although definitive answers aren’t possible with this kind of magic, I  _ can _ determine the similarities of the magical signature. While every signature is unique, familial magic bears a mark that underscores each one.”

Draco frowned. “But if the familial magic is the common thread, then these will be largely indistinguishable.” 

Smiling to herself, Granger shook her head. “Not quite.” She raised her wand over a particularly vibrant emerald strand. “For instance, watch this.” With another careful twist of her wand, she whispered, “ _ Regnans Revelio _ .” 

Immediately, the strand rose from the wall, hovering before her in midair. “Each signature on this tapestry bears the same primary, or dominant, root: it’s all Black family magic.” She rotated her wand and lifted her hand to trace over the interlocking rune he recognised from his father’s insistent education on his pure-blood heritage.

He nodded. “As it should; it can only be altered to someone of Black ancestry.”

“Correct,” she muttered, a self-satisfied purr colouring her tone. “However, like with all magic, one can determine its core components if one knows the most efficient method of doing so. In Muggle science, it’s called chemical decomposition.”

Realisation washed over him. “So what you’re able to do, then, is break down each magical signature into individual familial impressions—”

“Thus making it possible to determine the parentage of the caster,” she finished, a broad grin stealing over her lips. 

For the first time since this whole debacle began, Draco felt some of the weight on his chest lessen. “Granger, you’re a genius,” he breathed, fighting the urge to sweep her into his arms. “Show me.”

He could feel the excitement radiating off her as she straightened her shoulders and held her wand hand before her. “ _ Antecessio. _ ” 

For a moment, nothing happened, and Draco’s hope wilted, his incredulous smile falling incrementally.

Then, before his eyes, the magic began to disintegrate. 

A brilliant flare of white magic lit Granger’s face as she drew her wand down, bisecting the tendril of magic before her. Slowly, the tendril separated into two nearly identical strands. One was a deep, emerald green coiling in on itself. The other was a dark, inky black.

“This is Black family magic,” he murmured, lifting his fingers and twining them in the black cirrus nearest him. “It’s familiar.”

Granger nodded once, her lips parted in wonder as she studied it, her own fingers lifting to trace reverently over the magic. “It should be; its signature flows through your own magical core.” 

Their gazes met over the top of the magic, and suddenly Granger was  _ there  _ with him. Just as she’d been the entire time, but it was his Granger, the one who lit up the room when he entered, who unconsciously sought out his hand in her sleep, who looked at him as though he hung the moon when he lifted Elara in his arms and above his head like a aeroplane, who— 

Down the hall, a door slammed shut, and Granger jumped, her gaze flitting away from him. When it returned to his, it was shuttered once more, and Draco felt the absence of her smile as keenly as a cloud over the sun.

Clearing her throat, she turned to the other strand. She rotated it carefully, her free hand jotting notes as she went, but confusion grew on her face. Eyes darting between the magic and her notepad, she carefully sketched a rune. “That’s peculiar.” 

“What?” Draco asked, rising up onto his knees in a manner undignified for a Malfoy but which he’d grown accustomed to over years of parenthood.

__ Granger made a noise in the back of her throat as she rifled through the parchment. In the growing silence, she lifted a piece with several neat rows on it, compact print on one side of a line and a neatly drawn rune on the other. “These are the base runes of all the families in the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she said, tapping the paper thoughtfully.

“Okay, and?” he pushed, irritation flaring in him at the witch drawing out the moment.

Hermione ran her fingertips over the drawings one last time before she looked him in the eyes. “The rune on this magic does not exist in any magical lineage still considered pure after the twentieth century.”

* * *

For anyone who is curious about the translations of the magic or the creatures referenced in this chapter; I received help on these translations from a friend who studies Latin, but please, if you're fluent, let me know if you spot anything that's off:

_ Antecessio _ = literally translates to antecedent 

_ Regnans Revelio  _ = reveal the ruling magic

_ Singulus  _ = translates roughly to “separate that which is entwined” 

Pogrebin = canonical creature which hides as a rock or stone to ambush the unsuspecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm so glad to have you all along for this journey. I'm a bit behind on responding to reviews, but please know I read each one as they come in and I'm truly so grateful that you're all here with me. A bit of happy news: my husband and I found a house! So thank you to those of you who sent your well wishes; they were gratefully received and the universe worked its wonders on me! I look forward to what you guys think! 
> 
> I also hope the Harvest Moon brings you the fruits of your year's labor; we've all experienced so many hardships and challenges this year, but look at you! You're still here and thriving and _living_. I'm proud of you! This is such a wonderful time of growth and change as we go into the winter months, and I hope that you are able to feel tenfold the amount of joy that your presence in my life has brought me. Sending you all warmth and love from my little corner of the internet. Blessed be!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_The rune on this magic does not exist in any magical lineage still considered pure after the twentieth century._

Draco’s mind whirred, trying to assign meaning to the words but coming up short. He flicked his gaze to Granger. “So whoever altered the magic on the tapestry wasn’t a pure-blood.”

Nodding, Hermione used her wand to twist the rune before her. “Or their lineage is so old that their runic signature wasn’t recorded by 1930 when the Sacred Twenty-Eight were en vogue.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s possible. Can you break it down further? Determine the parentage of the unidentified lineage?” he asked, sharp desperation colouring his tone.

Already calculation burned in her eyes, and he could nearly see the cogs turning in her head. “It would take time to do it correctly. Generally, we already have a suspect in mind and this magic is used to confirm it.” 

“We don’t have time. This is the only lead we have,” Draco muttered, scrubbing at his face.

“I’m well aware of that fact, _Malfoy._ ” She sighed, summoning her bag. “It’s very tetchy magic; I’ve never been forced to break it down further than direct antecedents. I imagine it’s much like chemistry and the further it’s broken down, the more unstable it can become.”

Draco ticked a brow at her, waiting for an explanation.

“At its core, magic is simply the manipulation of matter. It’s why we can’t conjure something from nothing; we’re simply acting on that which exists on this plane with us.” She chewed on her lip, lost in thought. “Muggles liken it to playing God; we can transfigure something, but we can’t _truly_ create something out of nothing.”

She propped her hip against the tabletop, considering the scenario as she stared down at her parchment.

“When Muggles study ancestry, they have a large bank to work within since they’ve been documenting lineage for centuries—though, admittedly, it’s become more sophisticated in recent years. As it is in the wizarding world, only pure-blood ancestry has been _truly_ catalogued. That means we’re working backwards with very little framework.” She studied her notes. “And because magic is volatile, we can’t really study it in the same manner that we study Muggle DNA without proper protection and preparation.”

A headache began to pound at his temple, and Draco suddenly found himself very grateful that he’d never had to study Muggle science. The lot of it sounded far more confusing than most of the material on the N.E.W.T.s he’d never taken.

“Which we can’t secure in the time we have to get our children back,” he finished, bitter frustration coating his tongue.

Her expression sobered. “Well… not necessarily. I do have some equipment. It’s not enough, and it certainly doesn’t guarantee safety, but—”

“But could it give us the answers we need?” He pushed to his feet, pacing the length of the tapestry as he thought, then extended his hand to Granger. 

Hermione accepted his offered hand, and he pulled her upright. The movement brought her into his space, and he peered down at her, wishing desperately he could brush the errant curl—the one that always seemed to escape her bun—from her forehead, but she turned, carefully summoning and organising her supplies back into her bag.

When she faced him again, the colour had gone from her cheeks. “So we know two things. First, the individual who charmed this tapestry was of direct Black ancestry and an unknown half-blood.”

Nodding, Draco added, “And the other?”

“It’s incredibly likely that the individual who cast this magic has some working knowledge of Black family magic or access to their grimoire.” 

Draco shook his head. “It’s not possible. There are no living members of the Black family who would have access to the Black family grimoire.” Frustration bloomed in his core, and the headache in his temple beat more insistently. “Only me.”

“There’s Teddy,” Hermione hedged. “But—” 

“Andromeda was blasted off the parchment, thus losing access to the grimoire. And to that end, Teddy is only thirteen and wouldn’t harm a fly,” Draco added. “Between Aunt Andy and Potter, that kid was destined for Hufflepuff. I don’t think he would have the mental fortitude to pull off a kidnapping on this scale.”

Hermione dipped her head in acquiescence. “I’m not pointing any fingers at him. It just doesn’t make sense.” She huffed a breath. “I’ll Floo Kingsley and let him know I have to return to my office at the National Gallery to obtain equipment. You should contact Pansy, see if you can lie low with her since we can’t go home.” 

He frowned to himself, carefully thinking through his living relatives as she raced around him. “I don’t know, Hermione. There’s got to be something that—” 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

He froze, heart in his throat, and his words died on his tongue. 

Footsteps thundered down the hallway, so familiar that he flinched in response. He knew the anger they precipitated like the veins that spiderwebbed across the back of his hands, and he instinctively placed himself between the door and Hermione.

His father was supposed to be in Azkaban. How had he— 

“Draco, you will answer for defiling the family name,” Lucius Malfoy’s voice boomed, steeped in fury.

Of all the things Draco had feared most in his years of hiding, the one thing that had kept him awake most nights while Granger slept peacefully beside him was that his father would somehow find them. Now, only hours after revealing his identity to the whole of the wizarding world, Lucius was stomping through the halls of the family home.

Distantly, Draco was aware that Granger was speaking to him, her voice low and desperate, but he moved on instinct, racing towards the library door with his wand aloft.

He straightened his shoulders, and with a muttered, “ _Alohomora,_ ” the lock clicked unclasped, and the door swung open in time with the pounding in his chest.

The hall beyond the threshold was empty.

The stomping ceased, voice gone save the echoing reverberations of his father’s anger in his head, but no figure towered over him. No new footprints disturbed the dust-covered floor. 

Stepping cautiously forward, Draco ducked his head into the hall and looked first left and then right.

“Malfoy, you heard Merrythought. We don’t know what spells could be lying dormant,” Granger huffed just behind him, and he recognised the tell-tale sign of nerves in the tremour of her tone.

But another quick sweep of the hall settled the terror clawing at his throat, and he turned, throwing a shrug over his shoulder at her. “It’s alright, Granger. There’s nothing—”

In tandem with her gasped, “Malfoy!” a spectral figure darted out of the wall opposite him, and he was dimly aware of a sickening crunch and several flares of wandfire from Granger before he collapsed against the thick carpet and the world went black.

* * *

Something warm was prodding at his stomach, and Draco squirmed, trying in vain to lift an arm and bat it away. 

His head ached, and part of his leg felt like it’d been wrapped in a lead blanket, but nothing compared to the violent nausea that settled in his stomach and made the world spin behind closed eyes. Even the slightest movement made his stomach flip.

_What in Merlin’s name—_

“You think I’m not aware of that, Merrythought? I _tried_ to stop him, but he was—I don’t know. It was like he was in a trance. I’ve never seen anything like that.” Granger’s voice was muffled, but he could still make out the words and the high-pitched worry that coloured them.

Dread unfurled in his stomach; he moved on instinct, trying to get to her.

Light burned his eyelids, and Draco cracked one open, trying to determine where he was, but he hissed lightly in pain and clamped it shut again.

“Mister Malfoy, it would be in your best interest to keep your eyes closed and body still for the remainder of this diagnostic charm,” a clinical voice answered, and the warm, prodding magic swept over his body again. 

He grunted, biting down on his lip to try to dispel the pain. “What happened?”

Silence met the question as the unknown wizard continued poking him with magic until the light disappeared moments later. “You’re free to open your eyes, Mister Malfoy, though you may want to do so in brief increments to give yourself time to reacclimate to your surroundings. You’ve been out for a while.”

That statement alone sent him reeling, and Draco snapped his eyes open. Immediately, the room spun and the nausea in his stomach made its bid for escape, crawling up his throat in a bitter wave. Another violent surge sent vomit splattering against the floor.

The healer sighed and charmed a mop and bucket to clean up the mess. “I _did_ try to warn you.”

World still spinning around him, Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Where’s Granger?”

Her lips curled downward. “Mister Malfoy, you’ve been unconscious for over eighteen hours. You need to _rest,_ not flit about—”

The rest of the healer's words faded into a dull roar as fear settled in the pit of his stomach. Eighteen hours. He’d lost nearly an entire day. Driven by fear, he pushed himself up, using the edge of the bed to steady himself. “With all due respect, Healer—”

The man rolled his eyes. “Bulstrode—”

“Healer Bulstr—” Draco paused, tipping his head at the man, the polite demeanour he’d adopted in his years as James taking lead. “Bulstrode. Any relation to a Millicent Bulstrode?” 

“Second cousin,” Bulstrode answered with a tired, albeit bewildered, sigh. “Now will you—”

But Draco was already removing the sticky orbs of light that the Healer used to track his vitals. He ripped off the final one—stuck just above his heart—with a satisfied grimace, but almost immediately a prolonged, high-pitched screeching emitted from the floating diagnostic chart at the end of the bed.

If possible, the Healer’s face grew stonier. “Great. Now you’ve done it.”

The doors crashed open, and Granger hurtled into the room, panic lining every plane of her face. Her gaze swung wildly over him without registering that he was standing there, whole and well—minus his awkward hunch against the side of the bed. Her voice quavered when she spoke. “Healer Bulstrode, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

The Healer tipped his head towards Draco. “Everything is fine, though I’d appreciate it if you could convince your husband to get back into bed and stop being a pain in the arse.” 

When the full weight of Granger’s stare landed on him, a shiver rolled over his body. He knew that look far better than he would have liked to admit.

Granger was furious. 

Under normal circumstances, the expression spelled both trouble and anticipation for him. Granger burned hot when mad, but it was the cooldown afterwards that always ensnared him. But her expression grew pinched as she took a steadying breath, willing the sparks that danced along her fingertips away. 

She crossed the floor towards him, her wrath filling the space between them, and Draco found himself suddenly envious that the Healer could dart out of the room. Stopping in front of him, she drew herself up to her full height—still a full five inches shorter than himself—and glared at the empty space beside his shoulder. “James Ainsley, if you know—”

It was a blow to his chest that left him reeling, and before he could stop the reaction, he flinched.

The colour drained out of her face as she whipped her head up at him, suddenly aware of herself. Spluttering, she searched for the right words to say, and Draco held up a hand. “It’s alright, Granger. No harm done.”

Carefully he leaned backwards until his bum rested against the bed, and he carefully hoisted himself onto the mattress, if for no other reason than to find something to do that wasn’t looking at the guilt that played across her features.

As though she had anything to be guilty of.

“Malfoy, I’m—” She faltered then tried again. “It’s habit, and I—”

He waved her away again, choosing a window on the opposite side of the room on which to begin counting the panes. He heaved in a calming breath. “Where are we?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Granger suck her lip between her teeth before answering. “Pansy’s house—the Parkinson estate. She offered to bring you here under her personal physician’s care in order to keep your hospitalisation out of the press.” 

“How gallant of her,” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes and valiantly ignoring the part of him that screamed to comfort Hermione as he had throughout their marriage. “How bad is it?” 

Hermione leaned against the edge of the bed, carefully ticking through his diagnosis. “Mild to severe concussion—that can be treated over the course of a week with the right potions. A broken femur, though it was mostly healed by the Skele-Gro the Healer forced in you once we got you here.” She finally looked at him. “No permanent damage.”

“Good to hear.” 

Her face was still pinched in exasperation, but she slouched against the bedside. Absently, her fingers ran over the sheets, and Draco was seized with a sudden desire to capture her fingers in his own. She stared resolutely ahead. “You scared me.”

Her confession rocked him, and he sucked in an audible breath. Heart in his throat, he inched his fingers across the thin mattress. “Granger, I—” 

Silently, she shook her head, and his fingers stopped their tentative journey. “Not yet. Once the kids are safe… then we can talk about this—about us. But not before.”

Granger had drawn her line in the sand, and Draco knew there would be no convincing her to cross it, no matter how badly he wanted to explain why he’d never told her. But if this was what it took to get her back… “Okay,” he offered, folding his hands in his lap. “After we find the kids.” 

Her nod was miniscule; he would have missed it had he not been looking. “Why don’t you go get a cuppa?” he offered, trying to duck his head low to peer into her eyes. “I’ll get dressed in something more substantial than this blasted paper gown and meet you down in the kitchen.”

Hermione cracked a smile. “I don’t know, Pansy might enjoy the show if you walked about in that.”

Warmth blossomed in Draco’s chest as Hermione’s eyes lingered on the expanse of his thigh visible beneath the gown. He couldn’t contain the low dip of his voice as he stood, crowding into Granger’s space and pushing his luck. “I couldn’t give a hippogriff’s arse about what Pansy would or would not enjoy. There’s only one witch whose opinion I care about.”

She sucked in a quick breath, heat rising to her cheeks as he stared down at her. Conflict flickered in her eyes for a brief moment, and then she stepped away, an apologetic frown on her lips even as her gaze dipped lower. “You’re dangerous, Draco Malfoy,” she said, voice unsteady.

The grin he allowed to unfurl over his cheeks was positively feral. “Only when it comes to you, Granger.” He allowed a promise to colour his tone as he watched her walk away.

When she reached the door, she turned around, eyeing him. “I’ll meet you downstairs?”

He nodded, already searching for clothes to pull on so he could shed this blasted gown. “Downstairs. With a cuppa?” he reminded. “Two—”

“Two sugars and a dash of milk,” she finished, then added quietly, “just the way you like it.” Before he could respond, she was gone.

The witch would be the death of him.

* * *

Hermione fiddled with the teacup before her, waiting for Malfoy to emerge from the room Pansy had provided for him.

The Parkinson estate was… well, to say exquisite would be a disservice. It’d been updated recently, according to Pansy, and where Hermione was sure had once been wooden pillars and dark, moody paint, it was now all clean cut lines and modern colours. White marble inlaid with grey veins decorated every surface, and Hermione had never seen so many nude busts in her life—and she worked in an art museum. 

“Uncomfortable, Granger?” 

She lifted her head, eyeing Malfoy as he hobbled towards her. Already more colour suffused his cheeks, and she felt the giant well of terror that had opened in her stomach when he was hurt settle incrementally. “I am not.” 

He snickered. “I know that posture; you’re not fooling me.”

“Fine, I’m uncomfortable,” she admitted, “but it’s because I feel wildly out of place in this home. Not the statues.”

“No one said anything about the statues but you, love,” he teased, sliding onto the stool next to hers. 

She bristled at his goading, ignoring the way he smirked at her. Ignoring the _emotions_ that smirk stirred in her.

It was strange, acknowledging that she felt an intimate connection to Draco Malfoy, but now was not the time to contemplate her attraction to the man who’d worn a disguise of her husband for thirteen years _or_ the way his sharp angles and even sharper smirk ignited a slow-burning fire low in her stomach.

“We’re waiting for the rest of the Aurors to arrive,” she muttered, ignoring the colour that flared in her cheeks and chest from his study.

“The rest?” Malfoy squinted at her, gaze roving over the immaculate kitchen. “Who's here? If this is Pansy’s house, then there shouldn’t be any—”

Footsteps clicked down the hall, and Hermione stifled a laugh as Malfoy whirled towards the open doorway. She lost the battle when his jaw fell open and his eyebrows shot to his hairline.

Auror Merrythought strolled into the kitchen, a towel slung low on his hips and his tattooed chest on full display. Even Hermione had to admire how fit the man was, his waist slimming into a vee above the towel.

“ _Merrythought_? What in Merlin’s name?” Malfoy looked as though he’d seen a ghost, and Hermione had half a mind to reach over and press his jaw closed for him lest he drool all over Pansy’s expensive countertops. 

“Malfoy,” Merrythought drawled, ambling towards the ice box. “Didn’t know the invalid was up and about or I’d have dressed before leaving the bedroom.” 

Hermione couldn’t help the mirth that bubbled over at the man’s statement. “Quite the gentleman.”

The noise Draco made in the back of his throat illustrated his disagreement clearly. “Where are the rest of the Aurors? Kingsley?” 

His knee began to bob up and down on the stool, and on instinct, she reached out, pressing against the top to calm him. “They went home to get some sleep, Malfoy. They all needed rest or they’d be dead tired, which wouldn’t do any of us any good. They should be here in”—she flicked her gaze to the clock above the breakfast bar. Half six—“half an hour, give or take.” 

He abruptly stopped moving, and Hermione felt the weight of his stare on the top of her head. She could feel it, then, the way his breath stilled in his lungs as he waited to see what she would do, whether she would remove her hand from him. 

She wondered the same thing.

Merrythought bustled around the kitchen, summoning various implements as he very loudly made tea and avoided eye contact.

Then Malfoy moved. Slowly, almost as though he was afraid to scare her, he lifted his hand and curled his fingers around hers. 

It was in that moment that she discovered even fingertips could have a heartbeat.

Heady and desperate, Hermione could feel her pulse racing in the tips of her fingers, and she wondered briefly whether Malfoy could as well. He kept his eyes resolutely forward, expression carefully blank, and she desperately sought to mimic it.

“Was Granger able to relay some of her findings?” Malfoy asked into the din of Merrythought’s bustle.

The Auror shook his head once. “No. Once we carted you off the premises, she clammed up. Said she wouldn’t say anything until you were conscious.”

Guilt burned in her stomach as Malfoy turned towards her with a lifted brow. “If we’re correct in our theory, the children are safe. And I need Kingsley’s approval before I’m able to move forward.”

Malfoy shifted, her hand falling out of his grasp when he knocked his knee against hers. “Move forward—Granger, you said the spellwork is dangerous.” 

She nodded, pulling her lip between her teeth. “It _is_ , but with the proper preparation and the help of another wizard who knows what they’re doing—”

Recognition flickered across his face, and he shook his head. “Absolutely not. I am not trusting vital evidence to _Cormac McLaggen_. Not when it’s what could bring our children home.”

It was like whiplash, the way he swung between sweet and charming like James and this… familiar, vexing prat who sat before her. But the irritation was safer than whatever had sent her stomach into knots when his fingers wrapped around hers. “He’s one of the premiere magical geneticists in the world, Malfoy.”

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy summoned a slice toast from the selection Merrythought had laid out and began slathering jam over it. “He’s still a prat, and I don’t trust him.”

“Well _I_ trust him, so you’ll just have to trust _me_ ,” she returned, pushing her chair backwards with an indignant squawk.

A derisive laugh skittered from his throat. “Of course you’re going to throw trust at me. I deserved that one.” 

His self-deprecation only ignited her anger further, and she leaned towards him, bracing herself on the arms of his stool. “No. You don’t get to play that game, Malfoy. You had thirteen years to tell me who you really were. Instead, you waited until after I’d gone and fallen in love with you to—” 

Merrythought cleared his throat, and Hermione swung her gaze to him, eyes round as she realised why he looked pointedly between herself and Malfoy as he skirted around the island and left them alone.

At some point, Malfoy had turned towards her, discarding the jam-laden bread on the countertop. Recognition dawned on her that instead of grasping the arms of his char, she’d spayed her hands over his thighs; in return, his fingertips dug into the curve of her waist, and she was hard-pressed to tear her gaze from the slight bow of his lips.

His tongue darted out, dampening the swell of his lower lip, and Hermione had to force herself not to make an indecent noise in Pansy Parkinson’s kitchen.

If the heat in his gaze was any indication, Malfoy had realised the compromising position as well, and he made no move to pull away from her as a wicked grin spread over his lips. 

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, the roar of the Floo sounded, and it was just the distraction she needed to pull herself away from him lest she do something stupid like throw herself into his arms and wipe that stupid smirk off his face.

She busied her hands with smoothing a layer of jam on another piece of toast for herself. “Before I left the Ministry’s lab, Cormac and I worked together on coding ancestral runes, but the funding was a nightmare. No one wanted to provide support for research that could confirm theories that Muggle-borns had every right to the magic that they were born with, so when the position opened up with The National Gallery, I took it. You know the rest of the story.” She drew herself upright, shaking off her tirade before it started. “If anyone can help me figure out who cast the charms, it’s McLaggen.”

Malfoy’s face pinched into a haughty sneer. “Well I’m sorry if I don’t trust a wizard who can’t see past the end of his broomstick to stop a Quaffle—”

Rolling her eyes violently, she glared at Malfoy. “Oh, I Confunded him, you prat! It had nothing to do with his magical prowess or intellectual capacity,” she spat back. All the warmth she’d felt towards him had faded.

“I thought I felt off that morning,” a voice interrupted, and Hermione leaned back on her seat, gaze swinging towards Cormac and Kingsley shuffling into the room. Shame burned the tips of her ears as Cormac tossed a wink in her direction. “I thought you always played by the rules, Granger.”

“Yes, well, you were a prat back at Hogwarts,” she muttered, desperately avoiding his gaze. 

Merrythought strolled back into the room, Auror uniform and severe frown back in place as Pansy followed in his wake. “Glad to see the two of you have decided to stop canoodling long enough to greet our guests,” he quipped, tipping a brow up to his hairline.

“We weren’t canoodling,” she and Malfoy responded simultaneously. With a glare, she silenced Malfoy and continued. “We were having a discussion.”

“Looked a lot like flirting to me,” Merrythought replied, accepting the proffered tea that Pansy handed him. 

Sparks danced along Hermione’s fingertips as she tried to control her embarrassment. “We were _not_ flirting,” she ground out, turning to Kingsley with a hopeful, if pleading, smile. “Minister, were the Unspeakables able to determine anything from the parchment? Approximate time of composition? Anything useful?”

From within his robes, Kingsley withdrew the letter that the kidnapper had sent them. “It appears as though it was written recently as far as we can tell. They’ve managed to isolate the brand of parchment that was used; Aurors are en route to the shops which sell that particular brand. Hopefully they can get us an idea of who has bought it in recent months.”

Draco gnawed on his lip as he thought. “And what if it wasn’t recent?” 

Merrythought answered, “They’ll have kept a ledger as part of the Statute for Magical Defence. To assist in capturing wizards or witches who intend to do harm to the community at large.”

“Isn’t that illegal? It’s surveilling purchases made by the general public. _All_ purchases?” Draco asked, disbelief in his features. 

“All purchases,” Kingsley intoned, the skin surrounding his eyes pulled tight as though he dared Malfoy to contradict him. “It’s already helped us track down hundreds of missing dark artefacts which could be used to facilitate an uprising.”

Draco turned away with a snort, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, well I see _that_ ’ _s_ gotten you _so_ far.”

Hermione rose, carefully situating herself between Kingsley and Malfoy as the former opened his mouth to retort. “ _Okay_ ,” she emphasised, raising her hands between the two of them as though she were calming her children, not grown men. “What matters is everyone has arrived now and we can move forward with finding our children.”

Mentioning the kids seemed to pull Malfoy out of his angry funk, as he turned to face them fully on his chair. “Right. What did I miss when I was attacked?”

Merrythought quipped, “When you exited a magically secured room against my _express_ instructions not to?”

“The Aurors stayed late at the Manor after you were extracted for medical attention,” Hermione interrupted. “The rest of the house was cleared; they found several hexes like the one that you were hit with.”

“Which was?” he sniffed petulantly. “It wasn’t like anything my family would use.”

She rolled her eyes even as a smile pulled at her lips. “That’s because it wasn’t set by your family. It was a modification on a luring charm, designed to suss out that against which you would most vehemently defend yourself and then use it to lure you out of safety.”

Several emotions played over Malfoy’s face, but he dipped his face to sip from the tea that had grown cold over the course of their argument. “Right. And my father—”

“Is still locked in Azkaban where he should be,” Kingsley answered. “The home is safe to return to.” 

Both Malfoy and Hermione nodded.

“While you were unconscious, I consulted with Cormac”—Draco scoffed—“and he will be meeting me at Malfoy Manor to begin breaking down the magic further.”

To her surprise, it was Kingsley to step forward and address Draco. “Mister Malfoy, Mister McLaggen is one of the premiere researchers in magical genealogy. He works in both the Ministry lab and as a direct correspondent to the Aurors for cases in which they must determine the perpetrator’s identity. He is, well and truly, the best that there is outside of Hermione.”

Hermione dipped her head to avoid the praise.

“Together, they’ll be able to determine the identity far more quickly than if they continue to work apart. I understand your hesitation given the history between Miss Granger and Mister McLaggen, but I can assure you that this will be nothing short of professional. Am I correct, Miss Granger?”

She nodded once more, her gaze resolutely away from Draco’s. “That is correct, Minister.”

“Good, now that we’re settled, we’ll move this forward.” Kingsley clapped his hands, motioning for Merrythought to approach him. “Merrythought, you are to escort Granger and McLaggen to Malfoy Manor to begin dissecting the magic. I will return to the Ministry with Mister Potter to arrange another press conference for damage control; that damned Skeeter published an article about a potential coup. The faster we get ahead of it, the better.” 

Malfoy unfolded himself from the chair and stood, hands on his hips. “This plan sounds lovely—truly, I’m overjoyed that you’re all going to be _so productive_ over the course of the day—however, no one has seen fit to explain to me what _I’ll_ be doing.”

With a tinkling laugh, Pansy withdrew the cigarette that hung from her lips and blew a smoke ring towards Draco’s face. “You’ll be spending the afternoon with me, darling. After all, if you’re going to re-enter the wizarding world after all this is over—and you _will_ ,” she added, a severe frown on her face, “because I’m not going to go another thirteen years without one of my dearest friends—then you’re going to need a media strategy.”

“A media strategy?” Malfoy’s question was so soft that Hermione barely heard it, but the fury that mottled his face was unmistakable. “Pans, my _children are missing_. I’m not sitting around some posh estate playing dumb while my wife has to locate my missing children by herself. Not happening.”

Rolling her shoulders, Hermione moved to step towards him, to placate him or rationalise with him she wasn’t sure, but Pansy shook her head harshly.

“You want to know _why_ you’re not going to be working on this right now, Malfoy?” Pansy spat, her tone quiet with her own fury. “ _This_ is why.”

With a snap of her fingers, the morning’s copy of _The Daily Prophet_ floated between them and settled in Malfoy’s lap.

Hermione broke his gaze before he lifted the paper; she’d seen the headlines, the photos of her tear-streaked face, far too many times already that morning. The headline was seared onto the backs of her eyelids: _Hogwarts Prodigy Seduced by Death Eater: Source Close to Hermione Granger States the Brightest Witch of Her Age Could Be Unwitting Party to the Rumoured Uprisings._

It wasn’t the truth. Or it wasn’t the _whole_ truth. He’d not seduced her; his intentions hadn’t been nefarious. As betrayed as she felt, Hermione knew that Malfoy would never do anything of the sort to endanger his children.

The more she saw of him— _truly_ saw him—the more she realised the truth of it.

He’d never been a different person; he’d only looked like one. 

The realisation rocked her, but the crumpling of paper shook her from her thoughts before she could examine them too closely.

Malfoy had shoved the copy of the _Prophet_ away from him, a sneer lifting his lip. “They’ll print anything in that drivel.” 

A beat of tense silence passed between them, and Hermione cleared her throat. “Right. We’ve used approximately thirty-six hours of the time allotted to us. We need to move quickly. You’ll stay with Pansy and work out a way to begin damage control with the Ministry; I’ll go with Cormac and Merrythought back to the manor.”

Malfoy nodded harshly as he swept upright. He teetered for just a moment before he seemed to find the earth under his feet. Marching past her, he headed for the door with a severe frown. “Understood.”

When the door slammed in his wake, Hermione was the only one that flinched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I'm sorry this is a tiny bit later than normal; some unexpected life stuff came up and I've been struggling a little bit. I really, really hate to do this, but I might miss next week's update. Right now, I'm barely treading water and have a lot of stuff to handle between now and then. I will update on my Tumblr on Wednesday if I'll be skipping a week; I promise to keep y'all in the loop. In the meantime, please know how much I appreciate every one of you <3 
> 
> Also, if you're a US citizen and able to vote, please check out the deadlines in your state! Every vote is important, and I encourage you to make your voice heard as election season approaches.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Cormac whistled low under his breath as the large wooden doors to the grand entry hall of Malfoy Manor swung open before them. "I always knew they were filthy rich, but I guess I didn't expect to feel like I was walking into a museum."

Hermione huffed a laugh, cutting a path across the floor. As impressive as the home was, she didn't find the awe in it that Cormac clearly did. "The tapestry is up the stairs and to the left. The whole of the western wing is for art and the like. The study should be open if we need any additional parchment."

Following in her wake, Cormac made a muttered noise of assent. "How can anyone live in a house this big and not get lost?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Hermione allowed another laugh to trickle from her throat. "Honestly. I don't know how Malfoy grew up like this."

Silence settled between them as they trekked up the stairs. On the first landing, Cormac spoke. "Will you let him see the kids? When all this is over?"

The question struck her, and her jaw worked as she searched for an answer. "I—yes," she decided with more conviction than she'd thought herself capable of when it came to Malfoy—after all, he was her husband. "We haven't discussed the situation at all. We've more important priorities at the moment."

Cormac didn't respond for several steps. "I just thought after he lied to you for so long—"

"It's a complicated situation," she interrupted, studying him from the corners of her eyes. "I'm sure he didn't expect it to happen either."

"Or he knew exactly what he was doing." Cormac ran a hand through his hair as they reached the final flight of stairs, and he paused on the step above her. "I'm just saying, Granger, that if you need someone, I'm here. You're my friend. You know that, right?"

Of course she knew Cormac was there—even after she'd left the department and they'd both gotten married, he'd drop in for lunch regularly. It had been nice, to have friends outside Harry and Ron after all these years.

Even if he was a prat sometimes, Cormac wasn't a bad guy.

Her gaze flickering away lest her emotion overwhelm her, she said, "I know that. You'll be one of the first people I call if I need anything." _After Harry or Ron_ , she added silently.

Without waiting for a response, she brushed by him and marched purposefully towards the library, her palms sweaty with nerves.

She set her supplies down, eyeing the tapestry.

There was no need to examine the whole of it this time. Not after confirming that the new magic was its only outlier. Their priority was saving time, and so they'd start with the newest application.

It hadn't changed since she last saw it—no, the ire she felt towards it now was more aligned with the fear she felt keenly for her children's safety.

Cormac stopped at her side and gazed at it unimpressed. "That's it, then?"

"That's it," she confirmed, gesturing towards the Malfoy line. "All we'll need to focus on is deriving the magic used to conceal Narcissa and Draco's survival. The rest can wait, if it's needed at all. Right now, we need to determine who the magical signature belongs to and why they've decided to target us."

"Right then," Cormac said. "Let's get to it."

Hermione appreciated that about Cormac—in his adulthood, he'd grown out of the incessant need to chatter and showboat around her. He'd learned somewhere along the way that women weren't interested in his overbearing flirtatiousness—or he'd long since abandoned any inclinations that she'd fall for it.

She began the task of setting up her equipment, waving her wand and levitating the long table that sat beneath the northern windows towards her. When she was satisfied with the placement, she carefully unrolled the leather pouch she'd brought along.

Within, various vials and bottles clinked together, and she extracted a camera and propped it alongside a ream of parchment.

"If we manage to safely cleave the magic, what do we do next?" Cormac asked, eyeing the camera suspiciously. He walked in concentric circles around the table, layering protective enchantments over the area in which they were to work.

"If we're able to isolate the rune, then I'll take a picture of it for the records; better to have irrefutable evidence," she muttered, casting a thorough _Scourgify_ over the work area before they began.

Finally, she reached into her bag, pulling forth her most important tool as of yet: a zero-gravity isolation box to limit the chances of magical interference.

Cormac lifted a brow. "Hefty investment into your career, isn't it?'

Shrugging it off, Hermione said, "It pays to know important people." She hated to flaunt her connections, but without them… well, she wouldn't likely be where she was. "Since Ron took over helping at the joke shop, George was able to expand his other ventures. When he presented this to the Unspeakables, I offered him a second hand to perfect it in exchange for one of the finished models."

A wry grin split Cormac's face. "So you bribed your friend after working with one when you were with me in the Ministry?"

Hermione scoffed as she began to cast cleansing charms on her forearms. "Well it was useful then and doubly useful in my current position to avoid hexes left by greedy art thieves, so—"

Cormac lifted his hands in supplication. "Only a joke, Granger." Sobering, Cormac mirrored her final charms, focusing on his hands and forearms as well despite that they wouldn't be directly engaging with the magic. He peered up at the tapestry. "How should we do this?"

Hermione approached the wall, a tangle of nerves seizing in her stomach despite her intentions to stay calm. "Malfoy and I were able to easily withdraw and manipulate it, but we didn't attempt to separate it from the tapestry. That will be the first task."

Crouching so the targeted portion was at eye level, Cormac ran his fingers over the rippled surface. "It will be tough," he muttered, "but doable as long as we're careful. Is the zero gravity box prepared?"

"It's ready. We'll need to move quickly. I didn't sense any offensive charms interwoven with it, but it's better to be safe—"

"Than dead?" Cormac cracked, a smirk breaking the serious tension. "I agree—I find I'm quite attached to life, all things considered." He tipped his head. "Well, what do you say we get cracking, Granger. You've children to rescue."

Cormac worked in silence for a few more moments as he arranged the last of his equipment: another pad of paper and a quill to record notes for his own research purposes and to prepare a report for Kingsley, and a pair of singed dragonhide gloves.

She quirked her eyebrow up at him. "Gloves?"

His winning smile was back in place, all white teeth and charm. "In case we have to handle it directly. It's unpredictable magic, and I'd rather be prepared."

Nodding, she allowed him the suspicion; although she'd been out of the office for years, Hermione knew the likelihood of handling the magic was slim—and dangerous. There was a reason there were so few left who were willing to trace unknown signatures, and even fewer who worked in the field outside of the government, but she allowed him his fancy.

Finally, he charmed his quill to self-ink and record then cut his gaze back to hers. "When you're ready?"

Heartbeat in her ears, she tightened her grip on her wand. "Do it."

Cormac flattened his lips in determination. " _Diffindo_."

A bright flare of light exploded from the tip of his wand, severing the strand from the rest of the tapestry with a high-pitched squeal, almost as though the magic itself was alive.

Simultaneously, Cormac directed the writhing strand of magic into the isolation box, and Hermione slammed the wards around it with a final, definitive twist of her wrist.

In the aftermath, he heaved a deep breath in, wiping the nervous sweat from his forehead. "That went well."

She made a noise of noncommittal agreement in the back of her throat, eyeing the way the magic twined in upon itself within the chamber. "It certainly could have been worse."

Carefully, she aimed her wand at the barrier separating the strand of magic from the air of Malfoy Manor. "Now, when we reach the second level of degeneration in which we extract the two familial antecedents, we'll have to move carefully. Any wayward magic interacting with the unstable strands could result in a volatile reaction."

He chewed his lip before understanding dawned on his features. "You're worried that the further splitting of the half-blood line could result in the tethers in the pure-blood half to fray without being stabilised?"

The magical signature rotated in the isolation chamber, and Hermione studied it for the clearest area to begin the work.

Drawing her lip between her teeth, Hermione uttered a spell to allow her wand to penetrate the isolation chamber without endangering the caster. "Precisely. Depending on the degradation of the pure-blood line, it could deteriorate faster when separated. _Circumrota_."

Cormac watched in fascination. "I'll never get tired of this kind of magic."

"You and me both." She cracked a grin. "The more a magical line is broken down, the more it's likely to deteriorate, but especially isolated pure-blood magic. They require a stable connection for permanence. We'll need to work as quickly and carefully as we can to avoid jeopardising the integrity of the magic."

She leaned back, leaving her wand slotted in the barrier as she swept her hair into a loose bun atop her head and rolled her shoulders. "Ready?"

In a fit of dramatics only Cormac was capable of, he cracked his knuckles and slotted his wand into the zero-gravity chamber. When it was steady, he lifted his gaze back to her and nodded. "Ready."

Hermione leaned forward on her stool, carefully notating the beginning time of the procedure: 12:51PM. She then charmed her quill to annotate their discussion—she was, after all, nothing if not an academic, and the notes would provide useful later on.

"We'll begin by splicing the existing strand to reach the first antecedents," she intoned, carefully steadying the strand of magic. "Cormac, would you like to do the honours?"

"It would be my pleasure," he said, bracing his elbows on the table. " _Antecessio Singulus_." Carefully, the magic rose, twining in on itself as though it was trying to get away from the magic, and the man huffed a laugh. "Tricky little bugger."

A furrow worked its way into Hermione's brow. "Likely because it's been separated from the magic it was linked to. Try again."

Again, Cormac cast the spell, and again the magic turned in on itself despite his studious application of the spell. His frown deepened. "I wonder if it's too weak."

"It relies on the magic from the tapestry," Hermione muttered, eyes flicking between the fabric hanging from the wall and the magic which had been spliced from it. "It's seeking out the strength of that connection, the tethers." Something clicked in Hermione's mind, and she sucked in a breath. "But then it would—"

As though she'd heralded it, the magic began to shrivel into itself on the end which Cormac had severed, the bright violet of it deepening as the seconds passed. "Cormac, we need to move faster. The signature is fading."

"Shit. This isn't in the research, is it?" His eyebrows hovered low on his forehead as he watched the magic shrink.

Hermione shook her head. "No, but we've never had to remove the magical signature from that which contained it before. Though it makes sense—the intent imbued in the magic is to alter that which it's tied to. Once separated from it—"

"It degenerates," Cormac finished, swearing under his breath. "How much time do you think?"

" _Circumrota_ ," Hermione whispered, spinning the signature towards her. She studied the magic, carefully eyeing the way the burnt end of it was already fading into a dull grey. Soon, she theorised, it would disappear from visibility altogether. "An hour at most. But it appears thirty minutes is more likely."

"Fuck," he answered, grip tightening on his wand. "It's not working for me. Will you—"

Hermione was already moving, twisting her wand towards the magic as he held it in place once more. With a deep, measured breath, she whispered, " _Antecessio Singulus_."

This time, the spell was successful, striking the strand in its centre, and Hermione carefully aimed the tip down the heart of it, drawing forth the individual strands of the antecedent once more.

Cormac cracked a smile. "Should have known the Brightest Witch of Her Age would get it on the first attempt."

"I've told you not to call me that," she chided under her breath then raised her voice to ensure the quill recorded the next statement. "Next, we'll determine the lineage of the maternal line, just for transparency's sake. _Regnans Revelio._ "

As expected, the signature glowed green for a brief moment before a rune appeared: a three interwoven with vertical strikes and extending flourishes, it confirmed the presence of Black family magic. Cormac swore in awe, grinning at her.

She paused, allowing the quill to finish scratching the rune as it appeared before them. "Let the record show that the antecedents appear to belong in part to the Black family line and a half-blood line as yet determined."

Cormac nodded, adding, "Seconding for the record."

The quill scratched away. A bead of sweat rolled down her back as she carefully held the magic steady. With a deep breath, she flickered her gaze up to Cormac. "If there are no objections, we'll move on to the next degree of separation."

Anticipation gleamed in Cormac's gaze. "Seconding our move to the next stage."

She offered him a quick smile, appreciating his quick responses and briefly lamenting that she'd left the Ministry's research lab. This was the kind of magic she'd always wanted to do—research, something that could be life-changing for hundreds of witches or wizards—but she didn't allow herself to dwell on it.

She could beat herself up over it another day.

"This part will require the most attention," she stated, shaking away her melancholy. She had no doubt that he understood the gravity of the magic, but she couldn't help herself; it bore repeating. "We'll need to make sure that there are no distractions."

"Understood. I'm ready whenever you are," he answered, offering her what she assumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile. Instead, it appeared tight and anxious, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

With a steadying intake of breath, she tipped her head, studying the darkest line of the signature, that without the Black family sigil. Almost as though she were afraid to spook it, she selected the thickest part of the magic and aimed her wand at it. " _Regnans Revelio_."

The magic didn't respond at first, but then, lit from inside by a visceral, vibrant red light, it began to separate with craggy, uneven lines. The Muggle half of the signature clung to the magical, unwilling to separate, but it finally gave way with a tiny, high-pitched squeal. It shrivelled, vulnerable, in the bottom of the warding.

The separated magic whipped wildly about the isolation chamber, thrashing against the walls with enough force to rattle it on the tabletop, and Cormac drew back, concern etched into his brow.

"Hermione, maybe we should—"

The Black signature hovered in the upper half of the isolation chamber, and Hermione was struck with the odd impression that it was admiring the other signature. Another shrill screech issued from the unidentified magic, and almost as though it was a sentient being, it fell on the shrivelled Muggle strand in the corner with a violence that ripped a gasp from Hermione's throat.

"What is it doing?" Cormac whispered, tone bordering on awe and horror.

She swallowed hard, attempting to regain control of the strand as it tore into the Muggle signature and then turned with sentient grace towards the Black family filament. "It's consuming that which it needs to survive," she uttered, grabbing her quill to scrawl hasty notes. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Cormac swore, tightening his grip on his wand. "Hermione, I can't control it. I don't know—"

The Black family magic and the unknown strand collided, a violent burst of sparks emitting from them as they entangled. Fascination drew her forward. "Cormac, do not remove your wand from the isolation chamber."

He nodded, eyes wide. "Wasn't planning to." But involuntarily, his wrist shook, whether with fear or anticipation, compromising the seal around it, and a crack spiderwebbed outwards. "Fuck."

Hermione was already in motion, casting a stasis charm with her own wand as she rounded the table and began muttering spellwork under her breath. "We need to stabilise this and get out of here before—"

"Hermione, I have—" The door to the door burst open, and Malfoy sprinted into the room, gaze frantic as he brandished a piece of parchment and the table began to tremble violently.

* * *

Draco threw his head back against the couch with a groan. "Pansy, I'm telling you that nothing I do will work short of presenting a St. Mungo's prepared report that verifies that Hermione is under no charms or curses."

"Be that as it may," Pansy chided, "you still need to come up with some kind of approach for the media. You can't hide away like you're some kind of—some kind of social pariah."

"Yes, well in case you haven't noticed, I _am_ a social pariah—or at the very least _will_ be," he groused, turning towards the window. For a brief moment, he considered summoning a drink, but a glance at the clock ticking away on the wall told him it was still only half past two, and he wasn't sure when Hermione would find answers.

Pansy set aside the quill and parchment she had marked and remarked several times over. "Well if you're not even going to make an effort—"

"I didn't say that." Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm just saying that it's unlikely that they'll accept my return readily. Half the wizarding world already has it in its head that I'm behind the kidnapping of my children and whatever other nefarious occurrences they're likely trying to draw connections between."

The image of Granger at the podium as she addressed the public a few days prior flashed through his mind. Rita Skeeter's words echoed through his head: _Brightest Witch of Her Age complicit in scheme to overthrow the Ministry of Magic? More on page eleven._

His hand tightened around his cup of water. He wished Pansy had let him read page eleven.

Pansy leaned towards him. "Look, Draco, I understand you're worried—rightly so," she added as irritation flared through him. "But you _have_ to understand that they're cut throat; if there's even the slightest hint that you haven't given this thought, they won't back down."

He sighed, settling heavily into the chair. "So what do you suggest, Pans? Once the kids are back, we'll act like one big happy family? Like I haven't been lying to Granger for years?"

"Not in the slightest." She squeezed his hand then leaned back, crossing her legs. "That'll be even more suspicious. I _do_ recommend therapy, though. For all of you. You lot will clearly have some things to work through, especially given the children, who will—"

"Elara knows," Draco mused, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Pansy's brows rocketed into her hairline. "Explain."

He shrugged. "She knows. Has since she was little." A touch of a grin lifted his lips. "She inherited the Sight from Mother. It's much more fine-tuned in Elara, though."

A memory flashed through his mind, of young Elara toddling up to him in the park and asking, "Does mumma know about your hair?"

He'd shushed her, putting a finger to his lips as he tugged one of her springy curls. "It's our little secret."

And it had been since that day despite the guilt that ate at him.

Pansy offered him a rare, genuine smile. "Well, I think Granger and Archer will likely need some counselling."

Draco wilted in his seat. It wasn't that he wasn't aware of the possibility… he just hated to acknowledge it.

Behind Pansy, the Floo roared to life, and Pansy sprang upright, withdrawing her wand and crouching defensively. Almost immediately, her wand hand lowered, and Draco could hear the confusion in her voice. "Narcissa?"

"Draco—" His mother's eyes were wide and fearful as she rounded the witch. For the first time he could remember, his mother's youth seemed to have melted away, her age clear in her distress. "They sent something."

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to exist in the blissful ignorance of naïveté. Perhaps the Aurors had found the children, or maybe he was waking up from the nightmare he'd been unceremoniously cast into. But the trembling of his mother's lower lip stopped those thoughts in their tracks. "Mother?"

Lifting a shaking hand, she extended a piece of rolled parchment to him.

He unfurled it slowly, unwilling to expedite the dread he could feel bunching his stomach into a knot. The sofa settled alongside him, and Pansy tucked her chin against his shoulder in a gesture of familiarity as he peered down at the image.

Archer and Elara stared up at him, eyes wide and fearful as the image played on a loop. Pansy's sharp gasp rocked him, but he couldn't get a breath in around the fear that had lodged its talons in his chest.

They didn't look to be in danger, but Archer kept a careful arm wrapped around his sister, his face stoic beyond the terror that was painted so clearly in his eyes. His little body was angled between Elara and whoever had taken the photograph.

The words "the clock is ticking" were written in rough script below the picture.

A fury unlike anything Draco had ever known seized him, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "I'll kill them."

Narcissa nodded. "I know, my dragon." She straightened her shoulders as though preparing to deliver a devastating blow. "Look at the image. Closely, beyond the children."

Examining the photo beyond his tear-stained children's faces was nearly impossible, but he took a steadying breath and brought the image closer to his face.

They were huddled in a nondescript corner atop a worn mattress. Just visible beneath the far left corner were pristine white tiles. Behind them, stark black walls bracketed the children, but it was a gilded, golden frame in the upper corner that caught his eye.

Only about a quarter of it was visible in the frame, but he'd recognise the dragon-hide boots and point-tipped cane anywhere.

"Lestrange Manor," he breathed, his world collapsing in on him. "But it can't be—Bellatrix is dead, and Rodolphus disappeared after the Battle of Hogwarts."

Narcissa's lips pressed into a thin line. "Who better to raise the Dark Lord than the lover of one of the Dark Lord's fallen, most loyal followers? And who better to aim their vengeance at than the woman who aided Harry Potter in defeating the Dark Lord?"

His mind whirred, racing from thought to thought as he tried to piece together why Rodolphus Lestrange would kidnap his children. "It doesn't make sense—we're missing something."

Pansy spoke up then, lifting her chin from his shoulder as she stood. "Granger said that the magic on the tapestry was unstable, correct?"

Draco lifted his shoulder in agreement. "More or less."

"And whoever cast the spell didn't have access to the original spellwork. It was an imitation. Is it possible that whoever cast the spell was able to mimic the magical signature?"

His lips pulling into a frown, Draco slowly shook his head. "No, I don't think so. As Granger explained it to me, there is no forging the magic. It's tied inexplicably to your being. She likened it to what Muggles call DNA; it's unique to every person. Only twins have similar signatures, and even then it's not always identical."

"Whoever sent this knew you would recognise the location if you looked closely enough," Pansy mused, pacing the floor before him. "What are the chances that this is a trap?"

"Incredibly likely," Draco answered, cutting his gaze to his mother. "Did anything accompany this?"

"No," Narcissa replied, her lips drawn tight.

A beat passed, during which his heart pounded in his chest. It very well _was_ a trap, but nothing Draco could conceptualise would keep him from attempting to find his children, whatever the stakes may be.

"It's only been three days," he whispered, eyeing the photograph. "Why are they pushing us to move now? After they've given us a timeline?"

It was Pansy to answer him. "Perhaps their stakes have risen faster than they intended."

The grim possibilities linked to that flashed through his mind, and he rose, racing towards the Floo without second thought. "Pansy, update Merrythought and Kingsley. Have them meet us at Malfoy Manor. If they're not there within the hour, we'll work out a strategy without them."

Protest was etched into the planes of Pansy's face, but she didn't respond further than a slight inclination of her head.

He scooped a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the fireplace, his gaze falling on his mother. "I'll update you as soon as I can."

Narcissa wasn't one for overly emotional displays, but the pull of her brow indicated her distress more clearly than anything else. "Be well, my dragon."

Not trusting himself to respond, he threw down the Floo powder, shouted, "Malfoy Manor!" and disappeared in a whirl of light and colour.

* * *

He arrived on the hearth of Malfoy Manor in a swirl of ash, but he took off without pause, his heavy footfalls echoing the pounding of his heart. Without consciously thinking about it, he raced towards the library desperate to find Granger.

Following the sound of hushed voices, he burst into the library with the photograph clenched in one hand and his wand in the other.

"Granger, there's—" His voice died in his throat as he stared between the magic floating in an isolation chamber and rocking the table between Granger's and McLaggen's incredibly close heads.

Fervent, ugly jealousy seized him, and he felt his lip curl upright as their heads jerked up. A part of him shrivelled inside his chest at the emotions that flashed briefly over Granger's features. "There's a lead," he said hollowly, waving the parchment at her.

Genuine relief flashed over her features. "Malfoy, that's—"

In the split second during which she looked back to him, her wand drooped, and the magic in the chamber flared to life.

Violent and black, it thrashed against the magical barrier, and a hairline crack spread along its fragile surface. Immediately, a frisson of fear raced through him as Granger whipped her head back to the task.

"McLaggen, strengthen the binding charm," she commanded, trepidation colouring her tone.

Cautiously, Draco stepped towards them, eyeing their work with a mixture of curiosity, jealousy, and dread. The magic thrashed, a feral keening issuing from inside the barrier. "What's happening?"

Her response was clipped. "It's unstable. The antecedent is stronger than we anticipated; it's fighting to escape the barrier and consuming the Black family magic to maintain strength."

"But that's not possible; it's not sentient." The parallels to their earlier conversation would normally have amused him, but he sucked in a breath as she began muttering spellwork under her breath. Some of it he recognised, but the majority of it was a low, guttural Latin that was at odds with Granger's usual musical lilt.

"There are no clear answers as to why it reacts the way it does; we still don't know why Voldemort's Horcrux latched onto Harry." She paled, realisation clear on her face. "We very well could have created something akin to a Horcrux when splicing it."

The thread roiled in a self-contained chamber, and Draco leaned forward, drawn by the way it danced erratically.

"Malfoy, I don't know what you're doing, but keep it focused on you," McLaggen muttered, bringing his hand upright to grasp his wand. With a muttered spell, he released it from the notch he'd slotted it into and carefully resealed the barrier.

Despite the fear raging in him, Draco couldn't help the intense curiosity he felt that the magic had chosen him, and he crouched before it, head cocking in time with its undulations. "I think it likes me," he murmured, bringing his finger up to trace along the shimmering barrier.

"It recognises the familial magic in you," Granger answered, raising her wand alongside McLaggen. "It's looking for something to latch onto."

The thought should have frightened him, but suddenly Draco found his breath calming, the racing of his heart subsiding as he caressed the barrier. "I don't know, Granger, maybe it's not so dangerous."

"Shit," she uttered, running her fingers over the crack in the barrier. Her next statement was aimed at him, her tone low and frantic. "Malfoy, you need to step away from the barrier."

The words swam to him as though through dense water. For all his posturing otherwise, Draco found himself holding his breath as he watched McLaggen follow suit, whispering the same spells Granger had.

In that moment, he could see clearly how he'd wrecked the best thing he'd ever found. She and McLaggen worked effortlessly together, their spellcasting falling into perfect tandem. Shoulders hunched in tension, Granger's gaze flickered to Cormac's every so often, obvious trust settling into the space between them.

He'd once had that with Granger. She had talked to him like that, trusted him like that. Now, she ignored him as he stood, helpless, alongside her.

Part of him knew it'd come to this, but he hadn't expected it so soon. He thought he'd have time to fight for it, to make sure she saw him for who he _really_ was instead of who she had seen when they'd been school mates.

He thought he'd be able to convince her that the man she knew as James was who he'd become and the kind of man he really wanted to be, beside her for as long as she would allow him, but the pit in his stomach confirmed what he suspected.

He'd lost her. She would never see past his betrayal, and he would never be more than the man who stole thirteen years of her life from her.

Dark anger rose up in his chest, swallowing everything else. Anger at McLaggen for daring to stand so close to Hermione, to pretend that he knew even a fraction of what she needed as he wrapped an arm around her back to steady her against the force of the magical tendril.

Anger at the person or persons who had taken his children from him.

Anger at himself for ruining the best thing he'd ever had.

It opened a pit in his stomach, so deep and gaping that he could feel himself teetering on the edge of it and threatening to pitch himself within if only to escape the loathing that coated his tongue like a slick of ink.

Unbidden, he lifted his hand and splayed his fingertips over the chamber, the magic within begging him to set it free.

From somewhere deep in his mind, a voice issued forth, familiar and foreign at once: _She will leave you, foolish boy._

His shoulders shook with the force of desire it evoked in him, to both run and set the thing within free.

 _Look at the way she trusts him so_ , it whispered, caressing his mind. _She's lost to you; she's using you to find her children and then she will leave you._

"Malfoy, can you hear me?" Granger's voice was tinged with panic, and the terror in it was the only thing that reached him and drew his gaze up from the twisting magic. He blinked twice as he stared at the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Draco, _please_ , step back."

His given name on her tongue broke the spell, and he staggered backwards with a gasp. His hand burned at the separation from the magic, and he stared back inside with his mouth agape.

On the outside of the barrier, an angry red handprint glowed where he'd been held transfixed. Within the warding, the two sets of magic twined together dangerously, one blacker than night and the other a deep, emerald green that was uncannily familiar.

"Steady, McLaggen," Granger uttered, turning her wand to try to manipulate the magical signatures. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, but her voice was stronger as she directed him. "I need you to steady them so the rune is visible when I cast the spell."

Malfoy saw the other man nod, his free hand shaking as he reached up to swipe a fine sheen of sweat from his brow.

" _Regnans Revelio._ " She spoke hurriedly, her tone clipped as she raced to complete the magic, and Draco tried not to focus on the sweat racing down his own back as she worked, tried not to dwell on the voice in his head telling him she'd already moved on with McLaggen.

Perhaps it had happened before she'd even left Pansy's estate house that morning.

Rage rocketed through him so quickly he couldn't have stopped it if he tried. A tendril of magic flickered down his arm, violent and sudden, and it burst erratically from the tips of his fingers.

As if in slow motion, it collided with the isolation chamber.

The veiny crack exploded in a shattering spiderweb, racing over the surface of the barrier, and it glowed briefly as both Granger and McLaggen withdrew their wands with a snap.

"Everyone get down!" Hermione shouted, hand wrapping around McLaggen's wrist and dragging him beneath the table.

Draco dove forward, his head cracking against the side of the table as he went down, and pain lanced down the side of his face and into his back. A brilliant flare of light and a shrill shrieking issued from overhead as the isolation chamber shattered into pieces, and the world around them erupted into the cacophony of a whirlwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Earlier than normal today because my wifi is being shut off; I'm moving! We close on our house Monday and are slowly making our way to the new state, which means things have been hectic, but I so appreciate all your kind thoughts from the last update. I appreciate that everyone was so understanding when I just needed to take a mental break. I know this chapter ends on another cliffhanger, but I promise it's worth it! There's just so much going on that this would have been a 12K chapter if I hadn't broken it (and I'm sure no one would have complained, but lol). I'll be back Thursday and posting from my new house! Until then, blessed be!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The dust had barely settled in the room around them before Granger crawled out from under the table.

“No, gods, please no,” she muttered repeatedly, the sound of instruments moving back and forth across the desk punctuating her desperate pleas.

Heart in his throat, Draco emerged.

The desktop was destroyed. Where the barrier had been, a charred crater billowed smoke. Scraps of shattered glass glittered like diamonds around the surface, and only Granger’s notes had made it out with minimal scorching. The wall behind where McLaggen had stood was blackened, a hole blown clean through the tapestry.

Granger’s movements were frantic and clipped, her body vibrating with wild energy as she desperately pawed through the remnants of their work.

McLaggen surfaced on the opposite side of the desk, eyes wide as he surveyed the damage. “What ha—”

Something ugly and not altogether unwelcome reared inside Draco. Silencing him off with a sharp shake of his head, Draco said, “Go. Floo Merrythought and Kingsley. They should already know by now that there’s news of Archer and Elara’s location, but we need the Aurors here as soon as possible.”

McLaggen’s eyes grew rounder. “ _What_?” His whisper may as well have been a shout for as hard as Granger flinched. “You should have led with—”

“ _Go_ ,” Draco reiterated, pointing towards the door. “She’s spiralling. I need to calm her before she falls apart, and I can’t do that with you lurking in the room staring at her like she’s lost the plot.” 

Although he looked like he wanted to object, McLaggen finally nodded, and he left the room in a near sprint. 

Leaving Draco alone with Granger.

The witch was manic, tearing over surfaces she’d already searched as she muttered unintelligibly to herself. Her hair lifted in an invisible wind, tears pouring down her cheeks. 

Slowly, he approached her. “Hermione.”

Her shoulders stiffened for a fraction of a moment, her fingers stilling, before she began combing through the items on the table again.

He closed the space between them, stopping short of pressing his body to hers. It was familiar to him, the frantic energy rolling off her body. How many nights had she shaken awake in bed, her body thrumming from the aftermath of a war a decade past and scars that he was sure she’d never heal?

How many times had he held her and talked her through it as his own guilt consumed him from within?

Swallowing, he spoke again. “Granger, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

As though his words were a balm, she slowed her pawing, a hiccuping sob echoing from deep in her throat. Her hands still turned over the rough-hewn bits of wood that the magic had broken off the table, desperate to find an answer in the ruined edges of it. 

It was always a gamble, embracing her when she was so upset, but Draco closed the scant space between them, resting his palms on the curve of her waist. The gesture lacked the intimacy that he longed to wrap her in, the love he needed to show he still held for her—would _always_ hold for her—but he couldn’t push it.

Not when he’d taken the choice from her so long ago.

A garbled gasp issued from her throat, and she sank into him. “I’ve ruined it.” 

The depth of her pain shot through him, wrapping his vocal cords in a fist of emotion. He sucked in several breaths to steady himself. “You haven’t ruined it, Granger.”

“I have. We knew how volatile the magic was—we weren’t adequately prepared,” she whispered, her shoulders shaking with the force of her tears. “I was so sure—” Her voice broke on a sob. “But it’s gone. The one chance we had to determine who this was, to find Archer and Elara—it’s ruined.” 

Her body curled in on itself, pitching forward in his arms, and Draco reacted on instinct, coiling his arms around her middle and moulding his body to hers.

Her frame was thinner—he could tell she hadn’t taken enough time to eat over the last few days, her body neglected in her need to find answers. Still, her curves were familiar, and he took as much solace from having her in his arms as she took leaning back into him.

He muttered nonsensical words into her hair, pressing his nose into the curly mass. Her scent—gardenias and ink—washed over him. As his heart hammered away in his chest, he tried not to count the seconds before she pulled away.

Against his better judgement, he reached up, sweeping her hair to the side. Slowly, reverently, he lowered his lips to the juncture of her neck and shoulder to kiss the dark freckles that dotted her skin. 

She froze, her body stockstill in his arms. Several moments passed, his lips pressed delicately into her flesh, before she relaxed into him and tipped her head to the side, accepting the comfort and granting him access to her.

Something in his chest cracked, but he moved, trailing lingering kisses up and down her flesh. It was intimate, and yet there was no desire in the motion. It felt like a reminder, a promise, that he would be there for her for as long as she would have him.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but her sobs quieted to sniffles, and then her shaking slowed to minor shudders. At some point, her hand snaked up his body and her fingertips sank into his hair. The other tangled with his fingers, and he held them tightly against her stomach.

They stood in silence for several minutes, and Draco closed his eyes, resting his cheek atop her head and relishing the moment. 

If this was the last time he held her, he wanted to remember it.

Reluctantly, Draco loosened his grasp on her fingertips, and she took a step back.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he drew in a long breath and slowly counted the exhale.

_One._

_Two_.

Just as he reached _three,_ her arms wrapped around his middle. Draco’s heartbeat was in his ears, her familiar smell washing over him once more. He wished he could freeze the moment. Not for the mixture of fear and misery and other emotions that rocketed through him, or the time that was dwindling to find Elara and Archer, but to focus on the feeling of her in his grasp.

Her words were muffled when she spoke, but the gratitude in them was unmistakable. “Thank you.”

He opened his eyes through willpower alone, and when he peered down at her, the remaining breath was knocked from his lungs. 

A soft smile lifted her lips as she stared up at him. Slowly, she lifted one hand and traced over the contours of his face, and he couldn’t stop himself from turning into her and nuzzling her warmth, eliciting a small chuckle from the witch.

He was utterly captivated by her, caught in the way she looked at him.

The way she stared up at him and finally saw him.

Not James Ainsley. She saw _him._

And then she lifted onto her toes, cradling his jaw in her hand, and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to his lips.

Despite every fibre of his being shouting at him to sweep her into his embrace and kiss her breathless, he allowed her gentle exploration before she broke the moment.

A pretty blush spread over her cheeks, and she took several steps back until her hips brushed against the ruined table. Her eyes darted off of Draco and fell to the table top where the remnants of her notes laid scattered. She shook her head before letting out a heavy sigh. “We’ve got nothing.”

It was easier to focus on the events of the day than the riot of feelings in his chest, so he blew out a heavy gust of air, trying to tame his sorrow. The weight of their children’s photograph in his pocket nearly rooted him to the spot, but Granger needed hope—at least for a moment—for him to be her buoy in this storm they were weathering. He shook his head, the movement dispelling some of the stupor she’d lulled him into. “But we do.”

Confusion flickered through her expression. “How do you figure?” She waved a hand weakly at the table. “The magic is gone; the only way we can determine the caster is by examining the original magic.” 

For the first time all day, a smile lifted his lips. “That’s true, but you were able to isolate the two antecedents, correct?” 

She shrugged noncommittally. “Yes, unsuccessfully.” 

Releasing a frustrated sigh, he stepped into her space again. A thrill of satisfaction raced down his spine when her gaze dipped to his lips and then back up to his eyes as though she was afraid of being caught. Again, he said, “You managed to isolate the two antecedents, correct?”

Her response was garbled and irritated. “Yes, I suppose we did.”

The smile on his lips curled upwards. “And when I came in, you were rotating the antecedents to determine the rune they carried, correct?”

She rolled her eyes, shoving away from him. “Yes, Malfoy, we were, but it does not negate the fact that neither Cormac nor I managed to capture a photo, see the strand, or determine which rune was on the Muggle-born strand—”

“Ask me what I saw, Granger.” He turned towards her, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Her lips parted, eyes darting to his. “You can’t have—it all happened so fast.”

Once more, he approached her. Although he knew better, he lifted his hand, brushing his knuckles over the swell of her cheek. He lowered his gaze to hers, his voice low. “Ask me what I saw.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, long lashes dancing against her blush-stained cheeks. “What did you see, Draco?”

The use of his given name rocked him for a single moment, but he gathered himself quickly and leaned down, lips brushing over the shell of her ear. “The rune. I saw the rune.”

Before she could answer him, the Floo sounded and he pulled away, striding from the room to greet the recently arrived Aurors and leaving her swaying in his wake.

Never mind that the Ministry owned his damn home; he was raised with manners and would treat them with such even if they looked at him like he was no better than the dust beneath their feet.

As he walked, he mourned the loss of her warmth in his arms, the feeling of her supple skin beneath his lips, and he knew then that he’d go to the ends of the earth for Granger.

No matter what it took.

* * *

Hermione couldn’t wrap her mind around what she’d just done.

She’d kissed Draco Malfoy.

And she wanted to do it again.

The door closed behind him, his voice echoing through the halls, and Hermione knew she should follow him. They needed to speak with the Aurors about what happened and arrange an appointment to use the Unspeakables’ memory chamber, among a myriad of other, more important tasks, not the least of which was finding their children.

But she had kissed Draco Malfoy—fully aware that he _was_ Draco Malfoy—and she couldn’t shake the tingle on her lips, like she was a schoolgirl getting her first kiss. 

Giggling to herself, she turned, allowing the moment to seep into her. 

In just a matter of days, her world had turned upside down, robbing her of everything she’d come to know.

And yet, in Draco’s arms, something told her it’d all be okay.

Sighing, she scooped up her charred notes. They had a lot to talk about, and she wasn’t certain how they’d overcome the violation of trust she still felt as a pang in the pit of her stomach, but she hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing; she was too stubborn to give up on what she wanted.

With a deep, centring breath, Hermione straightened her shoulders and conjured a mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Smoke and soot dusted her cheeks, and she could see the deep circles under her eyes from her lack of sleep. But she also recognised the determination glittering within them. 

“Granger!” 

Draco’s voice carried through the house, and she waved the mirror away, turned on her heel, and marched in its direction.

The collection of Aurors stood in an awkward semi-circle around Malfoy, Cormac, and Kingsley, each of them shuffling from foot to foot as Hermione entered the room. 

Merrythought broke away from the group, his brow pinched. “Are you all right? We have a Healer on standby to check you out.”

She waved him away. “I’m fine, Merrythought, but I appreciate the concern.”

His hand clasped her upper arm, stopping her. “Granger, you’ve got to—” Her pointed glare at his fingers had him pulling away and affixing his professional mask back in place. “You can’t find Elara and Archer if you run yourself into the ground. Let us have someone check you out.”

Indecision warred within her, but the throbs of a low-grade headache had already started behind her eyes—a likely combination of sleep deprivation and the explosion—and she pressed her fingertips to her temple. Begrudgingly, she said, “Okay, I’ll see a Healer.” Merrythought was already moving before she added, “ _After_ we debrief Kingsley.”

The Auror pressed his lips into a thin line, but he offered a short nod and directed her towards a cushy armchair near the fireplace.

The plush welcomed her greedily, and she sank into its comforting warmth. With the fire roaring before her and night beginning to fall outside the floor to ceiling windows, she could feel her eyelids drooping. 

“Kinsgley, we have the rune,” Draco announced, slotting himself into the chair beside the fireplace. He’d curled his hands around the arms of the chair as though he was forcing himself to be idle. Hermione would bet anything that he wished for a glass of whiskey to quell the nerves she could see wound tightly in his shoulders. 

Kingsley immediately sat upright, blinking between the two of them. “I thought you said—”

“Everything _was_ destroyed in the explosion, yes, but memories can’t be destroyed. Not by an explosion, at least,” Hermione reminded him.

Merrythought rolled his eyes. “I mean, if we’re getting _technical_ , then they can be destroyed if one were to, say, smack their—”

Draco stood, cutting the Head Auror off with a muttered, “Fucking pedant.” He turned to Kingsley, ignoring Merrythought’s indignant scoff. “Granger wasn’t able to see the rune, but I was.” Several emotions rippled over his face. “I would draw it, but I’m afraid I’m not handy with a quill beyond script work.”

One of the other Aurors strode forward, sweeping into a ridiculously deep bow before Kingsley, and Hermione had to fight to keep her chuckle from escaping. Kingsley, to his credit, coughed lightly to cover his. “Yes, Donahue?”

Donahue reddened and stuttered out, “Sir, the department has a Pensieve that we might use for the occasion. It allows for memories to be paused to aid in investigations—helps us gather evidence.”

A smile tilted Kingsley’s lips upright even as his eyes fluttered in a roll. “Thank you, Donahue, for reminding me. If you’ll recall, I was present when Harry Potter was forced to recall his memories during the trials.”

If possible, the man’s face reddened further. “Yes, of course, sir. My apologies.” His stuttering trailed off as he made his way to the back of the group with an awkward gait. 

Kingsley clapped, addressing the room at large. “Now, if that’s all, then we will—” 

“That’s not all.” Malfoy took a step forward, his back ramrod straight and gaze boring into Kingsley as he reached into his packet. If he noticed the Aurors tensing on either side of him, he didn’t flinch. “This morning, my mother delivered this to me. It’s why I’m here.” 

In his palm, a folded piece of parchment flickered with movement. Perhaps it was the guilt that interlaced his tone or the way he refused to meet her eyes, but Hermione knew immediately that it had something to do with the children. He swallowed, tone severe. “I know where the children are.”

Time seemed to move in slow motion as Aurors swarmed Malfoy. Merrythought plucked the photograph from his hand, Kingsley barked orders for backup to his lynx Patronus, and through it all, Malfoy stood staring at Hermione.

She couldn’t tell whether she’d like to throttle him or throw herself into his arms and kiss him senseless. He knew where Elara and Archer were.

After a moment of shocked immobility, she crossed the room to him and took his hand. “Together, yeah?”

Malfoy offered her the shadow of the cocky grin she’d loved and loathed in James with equal measure. “Together.”

Orders issued, Minister Shacklebolt approached them both. “Miss Granger, we need to determine—”

“Whether the magic on the photograph is misleading. Bring it to me,” she finished, rolling her shoulders.

Cormac brought the photo to her, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Preliminary examination shows no sign it’s been tampered with.” 

Hermione nodded, running her fingertips over the image. A knot formed in her throat as Archer pushed Elara behind him, balling his fists at his side as though he would fight whoever was taking the photograph.

She’d raze the world to get to them. 

Swallowing thickly, Hermione levelled her stare at Kingsley. “I’ll need to take this back to my office to determine there’s no harmful magic on it, just to be sure. I’d use my zero gravity chamber, but it’s no longer functioning—for obvious reasons.”

Kingsley nodded. “Better to be sure, then. You return to your office with Merrythought and Donahue. I’ll take Mister Malfoy to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to retrieve the memory.” 

“Not without me,” she protested, casting her gaze to Malfoy. “Can I have a moment?”

The Minister nodded even as he pursed his lips. “The timeline is still critical, but now that we’ve located the children, we’ll move into a rescue operation instead of an investigation. I suggest you make it quick.” The man walked away, summoning an Auror as he went. 

Hermione swallowed against the emotion crowding in her throat. Slowly, she approached Malfoy, crooking her finger for him to follow her into the empty foyer.

Light barely filtered through the windows as she heaved in a deep breath and turned to face him. She worked her jaw to keep her tears at bay and finally whispered, “You’ll be okay?” 

His eyes were shuttered and his face willed clear of emotion, but he nodded tightly. “I’ll be fine. Go make sure that’s legitimate and meet me at the Ministry.” 

She folded her lips together, studying the way he crossed his arms across his chest, almost like he could hold himself together if he just squeezed tightly enough. Sympathy and something else that she couldn’t— _wouldn’t—_ name shot through her, but she stepped into his space, laying her palms on his folded arms. “Hey.”

Malfoy peered down at her, lines shooting out from the corners of his eye. Carefully, she lifted her hand, cupping his stubbled cheek. “Granger, what are you—”

She lifted onto her toes and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, just shy of the corner of his lips. 

Instinct screamed at her to shift, to slide her lips over his and deepen the kiss, but she held fast, just pillowing her lips against his stubble as the tension seemed to ease out of him. When his arms unwound from across his chest and settled onto her hips, she pulled back and smiled at him. “We’re in this together, yeah?”

For the first time that day, a wry grin pulled at his lips. “Together. As long as you’ll have me.”

A thousand responses flitted through her mind, but she just tipped back onto her toes again and pressed a kiss to his lips—fleeting and chaste—before she pulled away. “You should know by now how amendable I am to working out problems.” 

His grin was brilliant as she walked away, a matching smile on her features and new confidence in her step. They’d figure this out.

She was sure of it. 

* * *

The Ministry was deserted by the time they arrived, and Hermione tried not to flinch at the way their footsteps echoed over the tiled flooring.

The last time she had willingly entered the Ministry of Magic has been for the trials years before, except for the few instances she worked with the Biomagical Research Lab. Even then, she'd entered through the private Floo access Kingsley had approved for her.

The vaulted ceilings were much the same as they always had been, but Hermione could still remember the statue in the middle of the floor depicting Muggle-borns and Muggles under the crushing weight of Voldemort's regime—where they'd determined people like her belonged.

The memory made her skin crawl, and she instinctively reached for Draco's hand.

They arrived in the Department of Mysteries in a single-file line, each of their accompanying Aurors filing in behind them. 

Pansy stood shoulder to shoulder with Merrythought, and Kingsley offered them a reassuring smile. "Now, I think it goes without saying that this is not a conventional use of Ministry material, so discretion is of the utmost importance...."

They all murmured their agreement. With a nod, Kingsley directed the youngest Auror to retrieve the Pensieve.

When the door snapped closed behind him, the Minister turned to Draco. "You should know that we'll only be extracting the memory in regard to the sigil on the magical strand, but there is potential for other memories to bleed through, particularly if you have strong feelings associated with the memory.”

* * *

Draco shuddered, trying not to allow them to see the discomfort he could feel in every line of his body. The man's words weren't reassuring. Draco was aware that they would likely see parts of himself he'd not consented to share, but more than anything he was worried about Granger's reaction.

Kingsley didn’t allow him any more time to consider.

The wand tip was cold against his temple, and he unwittingly squeezed Granger's hand tightly in his. It wasn't painful, but it also wasn't pleasant. The sensation was much like when one of Granger's hairs got trapped beneath his shirt. The memory nearly tickled the way it slipped through his mind and onto the tip of the wand, and when it was done, he rolled his shoulders to dispel the gooseflesh that had risen to his arms.

He refused to acknowledge the moment and turned, gaze trained on the basin before them.

"Now, we'll place the memory in the basin. Miss Granger, given your relationship to the memory bearer's, we'll ask that you refrain from taking notes about the situation," Kingsley said, tipping his wand forward so Draco's memory hung from the end.

Granger spluttered. "I am more than capable of being objective, Kingsley. This is—"

Pansy was the one to step forward with a grimace. "He's right, Granger. Anything suspicious could throw out the evidence in the trail. Fruit of the poisonous tree and all that."

Granger opened and closed her mouth several times, but she finally settled on a muttered, “Oh, bugger it," and fell back into place beside him.

Kingsley eyed them each in turn, ending on Draco. "When this is placed in the basin, it will play for an undetermined amount of time—we'll have to make sure that the sketches are rendered correctly." He tipped his head at the wizard alongside him. "Are you capable of an unbiased depiction, Auror Donahue?" 

The man puffed up his chest, a serious frown on his face. "Absolutely, sir. It would be an honour."

Revulsion crawled down Draco's spine. It would be an _honour_ to record the lineage of the person who had kidnapped his children? 

The logical part of Draco tried to remind himself that the man was just doing his job, but he couldn't stop his lip from curling at the man's eagerness. 

Kingsley stepped forward, dipping his wand into the swirling blue abyss. All of Draco's reservations fell away as it flickered once, twice, and then the halls of Malfoy Manor appeared in its depths, each door racing past as his memory-version sprinted through the house.

"Shall we?" the Minister asked, then unceremoniously dipped his head into the depths of the water. 

Taking a deep breath, Draco followed suit, squeezing Granger's hand once more to bolster himself.

The memory swam up to meet him, both shimmery and solid in its translucence. It was strange, to watch himself sprint through the house he had grown up in with a single-minded determination. 

From his perspective, he could see the desperate pinch to his brow, the way his mind seemed to race through the possibilities even as he approached the doors to the library.

"Hermione, I have—"

Shame settled into Draco’s core as he witnessed his face fall at Granger and McLaggen's close stance.

Beside him, Granger sucked in a harsh breath, and her grip on his hand tightened. Apparently, she'd missed his jealousy.

For a brief moment, Draco wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole, but the memory progressed, drawing him forward alongside himself.

It felt strange, to watch himself fall into the allure of the strand of magic, to see the way his face slackened. 

The knife of shame in his core twisted tighter when Granger gasped as the magic whispered its venomous words. The magic curled in on itself, and Draco observed himself lean forward, fascination clearly etched in the planes of his face as he touched a hand to its surface.

It was frightening, watching the way he reacted to the magic's draw. Even now, in a memory and hours later, he could feel the power radiating through it. 

Hermione stepped into him, grasping his hand. "I didn't know," she whispered, her spectral form looking to him. "I didn't realise how it felt, the magic."

He shook his head as the Draco in the memory crouched in front of the barrier and brought his face closer to the magic as it writhed. "It's—I don't know how to explain it other than the way it feels here. It was like it was calling to me, like it knew that I have what it takes to survive."

Granger nodded, her lip drawn between her teeth. "It's just so _dark_.” She turned to him, panic in her eyes. "Not you—the magic. The way it seeks out that which will make it stronger."

Draco nodded, studying his manic expression while he leaned closer to the isolation chamber. 'It's unusual, almost like it wanted to latch onto me to—"

"I have a theory that it's adjacent to a Horcrux," Granger interrupted. "If you think about it, each person has a magical core that is entirely their own; it's where, beyond our parentage, certain signatures come from. We're not able to manipulate it; we usually can't separate it out except for under very dire circumstances. It's _advanced_ magic, but it stands to reason that if—"

"If the Dark Lord can split a soul, then he could have also separated his magical signature. Would it then be stronger than a Horcrux?" Draco mused as Pensieve Granger frantically called his name and he finally wrenched away.

Donahue hissed at them to be quiet, so Draco leaned closer, straining to hear Granger’s whispers.

"I would imagine not,” she uttered. “A Horcrux requires intent, requires _blood_ to bind it. It needs a ritual. Splicing magic like this would result in a weak echo of the magic itself, which would explain why it sought you out. It needs to latch onto something stronger to survive."

In the memory, Granger shouted for McLaggen to steady his wand, and her spectral version beside Draco stiffened. "This is when—"

" _Circumrota_ ," the memory of herself said, and the strand turned, displaying the rune just before Draco's face.

"I've got it," Auror Donahue whispered. Somewhere above them, Draco heard a quill scribbling furiously as the young wizard approached the barrier. "This is extraordinary magic."

Nearly as quickly as the strand rotated, McLaggen tipped his wand and the crack appeared, the magic roiling until it exploded. 

The memory went dark. Draco emerged from the basin, wiping his face as though he were truly wet. 

Granger was the next to remove her head, Kingsley immediately after. She looked at him, an encouraging smile on her lips. "You did it," she whispered, her smile tinged by the tears in her eyes. "We can find them—can find who did this."

His grip tightened and he pulled her to his chest, breath leaving his lungs heavily as he peered down at her. "We can do it. It'll be alright." 

As the rest of the wizards in the room lifted up their heads, Draco pulled away, keeping an arm wrapped loosely around Granger’s waist.

Pansy peered at them, her face ashen as she shook herself. "I'm glad..." Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat, trying again. "I'm glad you're both okay. That explosion looked—"

"If Malfoy hadn't been proactive with the Shielding Charm, you'd all be dead," Merrythought deadpanned. 

Draco released Hermione, his jaw tight as he faced the other man. 

Merrythought glared between Granger and Draco. "That was bloody foolish of the both of you to do." He turned his glare on Kingsley. "And utterly asinine of you to allow them to do that kind of magic without proper warding and preparation." 

Draco swallowed at Granger indignant huff, and he carefully stepped to the side, cutting off Merrythought's approach. "With all due respect, _sir—_ "

Merrythought stepped into his space, his height imposing as he stared down at Draco. Several seconds passed as Draco squared and braced himself for a blow that he'd have to return, but suddenly, Merrythought's hand shot out, nearly jabbing against Draco's stomach.

"When all this is over—when we find your children—why don't you come down to the Auror office and we'll see about finding you a place on the force." 

Draco stared down at his hand with something like disbelief. He was sure his mouth was hanging open like a dead fish, and it was only Granger’s elbow in his side that sent him into action. 

He reached forward, slipping his hand into the Auror's dry grasp. "I'm not sure it would be exactly advisable for you and I to work together.”

Merrythought laughed, shaking his head. "That's where you're wrong, Malfoy. Not many in our office can dish it as well as they take it." He cut his gaze to Auror Donahue sketching out the rune, who flushed to the tips of his ears. "We need people with your kind of grit around the bullpen. You might even give Potter a run for his money."

Draco finally smirked, shaking his head. "You had to throw Potter in the mix. Everyone knows I can't avoid showing up that prat."

Hermione huffed behind him. " _Honestly_. You and Harry are friends now. Are we really going to go back to schoolyard antagonising now that you're back to yourself?"

Shaking his head at her ranting, Draco turned back to Merrythought with a serious pull to his lips. "Honestly, though, I'm not sure it would be a good fit. The other Aurors, well..." He remembered the way the other men had stared at him suspiciously. "They don't trust me. Besides, I have a family business to run."

Merrythought shook Draco’s hand once, squeezing unnecessarily tight. "Understood. The offer stands, though. We're all a bunch of jaded bastards, but we're really not too bad once you get to know us."

Draco huffed an incredulous snort as he watched the man retreat towards the rest of the Aurors. The world truly was turning on its head if he was starting to like Merrythought.

Granger sidled up next to him as Merrythought went over Donahue’s notes with Kingsley. "He's not that bad, is he? Merrythought."

Draco pulled her into his side, turning to press a kiss to the top of her unruly hair. "I suppose not... then again, I'm likely to become fond of anyone who is helping us track down Elara and Archer."

Hermione stiffened in his grasp, her gaze becoming hazy. When she spoke, her voice was distant. "Do you think they're scared?"

Draco swore under his breath before gripping her hand. "Yes," he told her honestly, hating how her lip trembled. "But we'll find them. Donahue is going to view the memory once more and then confirm what he saw."

Hermione blinked away her tears, trying to steel her countenance. "I recognised the rune," she muttered, confusion flickering in her eyes. "But it doesn't make sense." 

Dread unfurled in Draco's stomach at the way she stared at the Pensieve as though it was the answer to a particularly troubling secret. "What did you see?"

She worried her lip. "During the war... how often did you see Voldemort?"

The glib use of that name sent a shudder through Draco, but he cast his memory back. "He was at the manor the whole of sixth year. He moved in the summer after fifth. My father invited him." His blood curdled at the memory. "He said it was an honour of the highest degree." 

Hermione blanched, peering up into his eyes. "He was there? The whole time? No wonder you looked so terrible during sixth year."

Startling, Draco stared down at her. "You watched me in sixth year?"

Colour suffused her cheeks. "It was hard not to. You looked so miserable, like you were just waiting for the world to crash down around you," she murmured. “You were all skin and bones, constantly looking over your shoulder like you were waiting for something terrible to happen.

It was an accurate assessment, and Draco frowned. "Yes, well, when a murderous madman lives in your home, your mental health tends to take a nosedive."

His cheek earned a laugh from Hermione, but it choked off when Donahue reentered the room, consulted his drawing again, and nodded to Kingsley. His voice was pinched when he spoke. "I confirmed my suspicion. It's the same rune."

Draco smoothed his hand down Hermione's inner arm as they waited, breath held, as the Auror turned the drawing towards them.

"But it's impossible," she breathed, her shoulders slumping. "There are no living relatives from this family line. It died out at the final battle." 

It felt as though cold water had been tossed over Draco, spying the name scrawled over the bottom of the parchment.

Gaunt.

There was only one wizard in living memory to have been born to a Gaunt, and he was dead.

_Tom Riddle._

Somehow, Tom Riddle had a progeny, and that child was holding his and Granger's children captive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL, I am nervous AF about this chapter. I'd love a review so I know what you think! A bit of bad news: the next chapter will be just a touch late-I do apologize for that! I've got job interviews lined up next week and I'm not sure if I'll have time to go through notes from my alphas/beta before then, but I'll fly through them as soon as I'm able! And, hopefully by the time I update, I'll be able to celebrate the end of a certain presidency with you all. So, if you haven't yet voted, make sure to get out there and have your voice heard!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The rune was crudely drawn, but Hermione couldn’t escape the truth of it etched onto the paper.

Gaunt. 

Even during her time at the Ministry, Aurors had whispered theories in the shadows, but none of them had been bold enough to suggest researching the possibility.

All to their detriment, she supposed.

Now, as they rushed about the room, frenetic energy seemed to vibrate around them all, and still Hermione felt as though time stood still.

In the crush of time and events that had been the last three days, Hermione hadn’t allowed herself to think about anything other than finding her children. If she lingered too long on the fear they might be experiencing, it would either root her to the spot, black patches dancing before her eyes, or she would collapse.

And if she allowed herself to collapse, she very well might not be able to claw her way back to standing again.

So she carefully boxed up the fear into a flimsy, failing cardboard box, and she shoved it behind analytics and examination that, for just a minute more, distracted her. 

But no matter how she tilted the situation on its head, the ramifications still felt murky beyond a pervading sense of dread. Slowly, she could feel the cold, clammy fingers of it clawing at the fragile flaps of emotional fortitude the box afforded.

The only thing that distracted her from the ratcheting of her heart and whistle of her breath in her lungs was Kingsley’s entrance, Donahue hot on his heels. 

Hermione could see in the draw of Kingsley’s brows that she wouldn’t like his announcement. “There’s nothing to be done for it tonight. We’ve had the Aurors sweep your home; there was no sign of disturbance, and we’ve had a trace and several layers of protective charms placed on it for the evening,” Kingsley said, eyeing them both critically before he added, “Why don’t the two of you go home and rest? We’ll regroup tomorrow to plan an extraction.”

Hermione wanted to argue, could feel the retort on the tip of her tongue, but a knot wrapped around her vocal chords and tears stung at her eyes.

It felt like a concession to whoever had taken Elara and Archer. Her heart fell somewhere near the soles of her shoes in acknowledgement that they would be alone another night, put to bed without the tales she made up for them every night or the lullabies that Draco had coined just for them. The ache that began just moments before turned to a dull roar, but she couldn’t fight the exhaustion.

Draco wrapped his arm around her waist when her stance flagged, and she offered Kingsley a half-hearted smile. “Right. You’ll send a Patronus with any immediate updates?”

Kingsley nodded sharply. “I’ll Floo over personally.”

She nodded begrudgingly, tears pricking her eyes as she turned her face towards Draco. Immediately, he pulled her tighter to him, allowing his embrace to act as a buffer she desperately needed.

She felt useless. Half a week and she’d not managed to find them—it was a bitter taste in her throat, bile and self-loathing more intense than anything she’d felt during the Horcrux hunt. But Hermione couldn’t deny the truth of Kingsley’s statement as Draco wrapped her in his hold, a yawn threatening. If the children were in the Lestrange manor, then they would need to be well-rested and ready to go should it come down to the worst.

And the sour twist in her gut and the intuition in the back of her mind told her it very well might.

With a deep breath, she pulled away from Draco and inclined her head to Kingsley, not bothering to hide her emotions any longer.

“Thank you, Minister. For everything.” Draco’s tone was serious, face carefully blank as he eyed the elder man, and when Kingsley offered him a hand to shake, some of the tension left Draco’s shoulders.

“Take care of her,” Kingsley warned.

Hermione fought another half-hearted smile even as she rolled her eyes. “I’m thirty-five, Minister. I can take care of myself.” She sobered though, tacking on another heartfelt thanks.

“We both know you’d run yourself ragged if it came down to it,” Kingsley answered, “but that doesn’t mean we have to let you. Make sure she gets some sleep,” he aimed to Draco, who nodded once again.

“Absolutely.” 

With another stern frown, Kingsley stepped into the Floo and disappeared into a haze of emerald light, leaving them in awkward silence.

Hermione cleared her throat, then stepped away, putting purposeful space between herself and Draco to leave room for the emotions that she was rapidly losing her hold on. “Shall we, then?”

His response was to stride forward and toss a handful of powder into the fireplace then gesture her forward. “After you.”

* * *

When she stepped through the Floo, Hermione took a moment to centre herself.

Archer’s discarded Hogwarts letter still lay on the coffee table, McGonagall’s distinctive script scrawled across the page. Their Kneazle was curled in a mass of fluff on a throw pillow, and her ears perked up when Hermione came through. Stretching languidly, Cleo jumped down off the back of the sofa and strode towards Hermione, weaving in and out of her legs expectantly. 

The mundane actions felt surreal when her children were in peril, but it helped to keep busy, to make sure her hands had something to do when her mind careened violently towards a breakdown that the silence threatened.

Carefully, she dumped food in the tabby’s bowl. A grating purr began immediately deep in the cat’s chest, and Hermione knelt to carefully pet her ears. “I know. I’m sorry. You’ll get some extra treats after dinner, just don’t tell Ja—”

Her voice died in her throat. James. She’d been about to say not to tell James, but there  _ was  _ no James to tell. He was Draco now. 

He was Draco, and she loved him, and their children were gone and everything seemed to be unravelling at the seams no matter how violently she tried to keep everything clutched together.

Without warning, a sob erupted from deep in the pit of her stomach, almost like it had been wrenched from the very depths of her soul. The force of it rubbed her throat raw. Her shoulders shook as tears she’d been holding back for three days cascaded down her cheeks. 

How hadn’t she noticed? All these years, she’d been living with the boy who had tormented her as a child. Sleeping next to him, sleeping  _ with  _ him… it didn’t make sense.

And their children… gods their children were at the heart of it, taken by whoever wanted to make him pay for perceived crimes against other wizards.

Another sob hiccoughed from deep in her throat, and she sat back on her haunches, wrapping her arms around her legs as she cried.

She hadn’t even heard the Floo sound, but strong arms wrapped around her, the familiar clean scent of cologne she’d purchased him for Father’s Day two years prior enveloping her. Draco pressed his cheek into her hair as he rubbed her arms, muttering nonsensical words to her as she shook. 

“I’ve got you, Granger,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I’m so sorry.”

A hundred responses raced through her. She wanted to know why,  _ how,  _ he had wound up in her home and as her husband. How long it had been part of his plan and when it had stopped being a lie, but more than anything, she wanted to make sure she could trust the sense of safety she felt in his embrace. 

Sobs wracked her for several more minutes before she pulled back, swiping the tears away from her cheeks. 

Malfoy leaned back, too, crouching on his haunches as he allowed her room to breathe. His face bore the red-rimmed eyes that were telltale of his own tears, and unbidden, her hand lifted to his cheek and brushed his hair away from his face. 

Finally, she spoke, praying to whatever deities were listening for his honesty. “Why?”

He choked a self-deprecating laugh. “Where do I begin, Granger?”

“I find the beginning is usually the best place to start,” she said, earning herself another laugh..

Malfoy stood, extending a hand. When he pulled her to her feet, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I think we need to have a long talk, Granger.” He tipped his head towards the loo. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and I’ll meet you in the kitchen with some soup?”

Mutely, she nodded, moving down the hall as if on autopilot. 

She paused as she reached the threshold of the bathroom, peering back over her shoulder.

Malfoy was staring at her, his shoulders curved inward as he watched her walk away, face drawn. Cleo weaved in and out from between his feet, but he only stared at her. 

As though he’d already lost her.

Her heart cracked incrementally in that moment, and she willed a smile to her face. “Fifteen minutes. And then we talk.” His face remained a mask, so she lifted her hand and gestured between the two of them. “Fifteen minutes and then we’ll fix this.”

* * *

The warm bowl of soup that Draco pressed into Hermione’s hands was grounding in a way the shower hadn't been.

Perhaps it was the coiling spires of steam that curled in her nose, their familiar smell of lentils almost overpowering in their cramped kitchen, but it settled her soul as she slurped from the spoon.

"That's poor manners, Granger." Draco leaned against the counter, eyeing her critically over his own bowl.

She recognised that look; no matter what face he wore, his concern had always been obvious.

Swallowing, she offered him a shrug and tremulous smile. "It's a small shred of normalcy. Elara and Archer aren't here to scold for it." The mention of their names shifted the brief respite they’d found, and Hermione felt herself curl into herself to protect herself from whatever was to come. 

His features fell, and he took another helping of his soup before he settled on the chair opposite hers. "Where should I begin?"

"I find the beginning is always the best place to start," she repeated.

"Right." Without the glamour of James' appearance, Hermione could see the fine lines that had begun to spiderweb out from the corners of his eyes. Whatever malice he'd held in their grey orbs during their childhood had evaporated, and now he peered at her with something akin to sorrow.

He was afraid he'd lose her.

If she was frank, she was too.

"Before the end of fourth year," he began, low and slow, "my mother sent me an owl. It was cryptic, but I puzzled it out eventually. The Dark Lord had plans—he would rise. And my father had sworn his allegiance so many years ago. It was expected he would join him again."

Hermione nodded. She had assumed as much, but it didn't stop the incremental cracking of her heart. He'd been so young. At just fourteen years old, Draco had been expected to follow in his father's footsteps. To serve a madman.

Sucking in a deep breath, he continued. "I didn't know—not then, at least—just how bad it would be. It was one of the few fortunate things about being at Hogwarts. It was largely insular from the outside world. And my mother—well, she did what she could to keep the effects of my father's actions from impacting me at Hogwarts." 

"Your mother saved Harry, too," Hermione supplied, dipping her gaze to the bowl before her and taking another serving of the cooling soup. "At the end. It's why Harry intended to testify at your trial. Eventually, it's why you and your mother were cleared. The Ministry—well, Kingsley, largely—recognised that those were not the actions of someone who was a willing participant in Voldemort's actions."

Draco's lip curled, self-disgust still permeating the careful cultivation of his adult presence. "It wasn't good enough in the aftermath, though, was it? Months later. They didn't even look into it until  _ after _ we were gone. It was simple enough to just write another Death Eater off, pretend they could wash their hands of us. They could have—"

He sucked in a breath, forcing himself calm. "There were so many moments that I tried to leave you and your lot little clues that I didn't want to be part of my father's world. The World Cup, refusing to name Potter at the manor, the Room of Requirement… I wanted to help Potter, but Crabbe and Goyle—"

"Little rebellions," Hermione whispered, tears pricking her eyes. "Why?" 

"There's a lot you could be questioning, Granger. Why what?" 

The sharp words had no bite, but Hermione still felt scolded. "Why did you decide you didn't want to be part of what Voldemort offered you?" 

Draco shifted, discarding his half-eaten soup on the countertop. "I've not always been a good person. I was raised to believe that I was superior to everything,  _ everyone _ , that I encountered." He paused, cutting his gaze away. "And then I met a little Muggleborn girl who continued to best me no matter what I tried." 

A flush burned up Hermione's cheeks, but she pushed him. "And when did everything change?"

"From the moment I saw you on the Hogwarts Express, I wanted to know you."

There was no shame in his response, no guilt or embarrassment, only raw honesty that stripped Hermione bare. Though she tried to respond, nothing escaped her parted lips.

"Imagine my surprise, when I watched the wild-haired, bright-eyed spitfire be sorted into Gryffindor house. Imagine my shock when I realised that she was a Muggleborn." A piece of the formica chipped off where his fingers scratched at the battered surface, white flakes coating his fingertips. "Imagine my dismay when I couldn’t get her out of my mind.”

Hermione was distinctly aware that they were no longer talking about the Sorting or Hogwarts at all. 

"After the final battle, my mother found me. I hid away. Like a coward." He spat the words, shoulders slumping. "I couldn't destroy the diadem, couldn't fight the Dark Lord, couldn't even manage to save someone right in front of me." 

Her heart stuttered. "Who?"

Expression far away, he kicked at the floor. "When I left the Room of Requirement, after Potter saved me, I ran into Greyback. He was chasing a girl—the one that Weasley was practically attached to all of sixth year—and she tripped." His skin was pale, gooseflesh springing up along his arms as he recalled the battle. "And I couldn't stop him. I froze." 

"Draco, it's—"

"It's not okay. It wasn't then, and it's not now." His eyes flashed. Self-hatred was a powerful drug, and he'd wrestled with it unchecked for years. "I could have stunned him—killed him, even. His back was to me because he  _ trusted me _ . He expected me to fight alongside him. And I didn't challenge that trust."

The words fell, heavy and damning between them.

"I was complicit." 

“Draco, you were a  _ child _ . We all were." Hermione pushed upright, discarding her own bowl of soup to approach him. His arms were bound tight across his chest, refusing her solace.

His gaze fixed over her shoulder, staring resolutely at the wall and continuing as though she hadn’t spoken. "When Potter killed the Dark Lord, the whole castle knew. It was hard not to. We all felt it."

His hand drifted to his forearm, rubbing absently at the expanse where his Dark Mark would have been. He'd not uncovered it since his glamour had been removed.

"And I was afraid." He looked at her then, eyes haunted with memories fifteen years buried. "How do you reconcile the person you see in the mirror when the only thing you can see is the boy who didn't know what he was getting into?" 

It was a question not unfamiliar to one she’d asked herself once upon a time.

Hermione clasped his forearm, intentionally covering his Dark Mark. If nothing else, she could offer her resolve. "When your mother offered you an out in a witch she'd met, you took it." 

"I took it." He shuddered, pulling away from her, though his hand snaked down and laced his fingers between hers as he deflated. "Mother took us through the Room of Requirement, out the passageway that Longbottom had fashioned between Hogwarts and the Hog's Head Inn." 

Hermione nodded, leading him towards the sofa. The fuzzy blanket he'd gifted her so many Christmases ago lay discarded across the arm, and she tucked it over his lap, absently toying with the tassels hanging from it. 

"What she offered was too good to be true. Money. New identities. Passageway into Muggle London, and contacts to help us learn how to integrate into the community." He peered up at her, begging her to understand him. "The price seemed worth it at the time, and my mother paid it willingly."

"Access to a portion of Black family magic. Advanced enough to manipulate the tapestry," Hermione guessed, remembering his confession to Pansy days before. That it had only been days shocked her to the core.

"A portion of the Black family magic,” Draco confirmed. “It shouldn't have been much, and at the time, neither my mother nor I thought to check the witch's words. We should have made her agree to an Unbreakable Vow, but--"

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Hermione finished, offering him a slight quirk of her lips. 

"That it is," Draco agreed.

"So you accepted," Hermione prompted. 

Draco nodded, his gaze shuttering again. "We accepted, but I watched the witch closely—I didn’t trust her. The magic was relatively simple, and she taught me enough to be able to replicate it should it begin to waver." He thought for a moment, scrubbing at his chin. "It was the hardest six months of my life, those first few in the Muggle world. Mother—she didn't know how to survive, and I resisted so much." 

I was afraid to use my magic, lest the ministry track us that way, and so I sat there, in this little halfway house that the witch had directed us to. And Mother was a shell of herself, torn between grief about Father and guilt for leaving him behind." Draco's hand clenched around hers.

"He's in Azkaban, Draco. He'll never get out," Hermione reminded, her voice soft.

"I know, but there's a part of me that worries—what would happen if he ever got out? Would he come after Mother? Or the children? Surely he knows by now that we've children," he muttered. "Part of me wonders if this wasn't all his own machinations to exact revenge on us—if he knew that Mother had betrayed him."

Desperate to stall his spiral, Hermione redirected him. "What drew you out of the house?" 

Finally, a dim smile lifted his lips. "Mother grew tired of the simple sandwiches I made us all the time. She wanted food— _ real _ food—and so I left."

Hermione studied him as he lost himself in memory, allowing him to cast his mind back to the beginning of this new existence. 

"Muggles are—Granger, I'd never known how  _ inventive _ they are." He peered at her, earnest. "My father told me they were cave people, barely surviving. That they lived in the shadows of our magic. Walking along the high street was so surreal. So much of their technology is just like magic."

Hermione cracked a grin. "To Muggles, technology  _ is _ magic. It's just a different  _ kind _ of magic." 

"It's incredible. And I was  _ so _ overwhelmed. I didn't even know where to begin to look, and by the time I realised how far I'd strayed from the house, I couldn't find my way back." He sobered again. She could tell how painful it was for him to recall that moment, but he pushed through. "That was the first time I used magic, to Apparate back to the house. And then I sat in fear, crouched by the door with my wand at the ready, for the Ministry to crash through the doorway and take us away." 

By the time the faraway look in his eyes vanished, Hermione’s heart rate had slowed. “They never came. And then the days had all begun to run together. I didn't know what to do beyond wander London, trying to find a place to earn petty cash. I didn't dare reach out to Theo or Blaise to see if they'd survived or if they'd been jailed. Survival was the only thing I could bear to focus on." He sighed. "And then I wandered into the gallery."

Hermione stilled, her breath coming quickly. 

It was still vivid in her mind. That day had been her first walking the gallery, exploring the collections she would soon oversee alongside the magical acquisitions she would coordinate with the Ministry. Her life had seemed so surreal already, that just a year out of Hogwarts she'd landed a prestigious career in the Ministry and then the National Gallery when she'd tired of the bureaucratic red tape of governmental work. 

And then she'd spotted James Ainsley studying Boticelli’s  _ Venus and Mars _ , awe in every line of his face.

"And there she was," he whispered, finally looking up at her.

Devotion shone from the depths of his eyes with equal parts fear. "The witch I'd been so fascinated with for all those years, right before me."

"I remember," she answered. 

He'd been in worn denim jeans and a threadbare jumper that were entirely at odds with the way he'd carried himself. Reading glasses had been perched on the end of his nose, but he'd clumsily stowed them in his jumper pocket when she approached.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" they both recalled, matching tentative smiles lifting their lips.

Draco flushed lightly. "I wasn't talking about the painting then. Or now." 

"Ever the romantic," Hermione teased, settling back into the warmth those first moments had brought her.

"Only for you." He sobered again. "All this time, you were the driving force behind my change of heart. I could never reconcile the Muggleborn witch with the cretins that my father had told me Muggleborns were. And I wanted to know you then.  _ Truly _ know you. Even if everything about me then was a lie." 

Hermione's heart clenched in her chest. "You looked like you had seen a ghost." 

"I thought I had," he answered. "I didn't know why you were there, what the Muggle world could offer to the brightest witch of her age." Hermione cringed. "I panicked. I was sure that if you talked to me, you'd know. That you'd see right through the glamour." 

"I didn't though, as Kingsley so aptly pointed out," she conceded, tipping her head to study him as her own flush lit her cheeks. "I wanted to meet the Muggle who looked at paintings like he wanted to understand the secrets each brush stroke contained."

"I’m a very selfish man, Granger. I wanted to know the witch who slapped me in third year," Draco snarked. 

She knocked her shoulder with his. "It's probably a good thing I met you as James. I'd have thought you’d been Confunded if Draco Malfoy had charmed me the way James had." 

He had the grace to look scolded. "I realise I wasn't always the most... tactful—"

A laugh exploded out of her. "Tactful is the  _ last _ word I'd choose to describe you at Hogwarts." His warmth seeped into her when she settled into his side. "Downright devious, maybe. Bitingly witty." He lifted a brow at her. "Even I can admit that some of your barbs were well done. You could have been a Ravenclaw." 

"The hat tried, for just a split second. But I wouldn't have it." His expression took on a wistful tinge. "I wanted to be just like my father."

Hermione's sorrow returned, and she grasped his chin, turning his face to hers. "I never dreamed I'd say this, but your father wasn't all bad." Draco opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head, laying a finger over his lips. "He wasn't. He did what he thought was right for his family—it wasn't, and I'll be the first to admit that I hold no love lost for him."

Shifting, she folded her legs beneath her, finger still on his lips. "But he held to his convictions—he was strong. He tried his best to raise you to prioritise your family values—even if he was misled. He taught you what it means to fight for what you believe in—and that made you into the man you are today." 

"You give him too much credit," Draco muttered, pressing a kiss to her fingertip. 

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe so, but I know the man that I married. And he may have looked like someone else, but I know his heart." Finally, she pulled her hand away and pressed it to his chest. "That heart is in here, Draco. It's who  _ you _ are, no matter how much guilt you carry. It's who you've been all along." 

His eyes fluttered shut, hiding the glassy sheen they'd taken on, and both hands covered hers, only a slight shake to them. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. "You have no idea how long I've needed to hear that." 

Pressing upright, Hermione folded her arms around his shoulders. "I'm here, Draco. And I forgive you."

* * *

She knew.

Every single bit of it, the deception, his selfishness, his shame.

She knew. 

And she hadn’t left. She was in front of him, her hands clasped in his, expression open and honest and loving, and she’d  _ forgiven  _ him.

Hermione’s words washed over him like a wave, washing him clean of years worth of doubt and pain.

As slowly as he could, he reached for her, disentangling their hands and cupping her face. He could barely hear himself when he breathed, “You forgive me. Just like that.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. “Well, not  _ just  _ like that. We’ll obviously have to discuss the implications this will have on our relationship, given the  _ very  _ public nature of your return to the magical world, how we’ll integrate your business ventures into the family, and then there’s the matter of reintroducing you to the children—”

“Elara knows,” he interrupted, and he prided himself in the fact that he only flinched a bit when Hermione’s jaw popped open. “The Sight—it’s a Black family trait.”

She spluttered, “If you’re trying to tell me that our daughter is a  _ Seer _ , I think we might have more of a problem than—”

“Granger?” he interrupted, warmth blossoming in his chest for the first time all evening as he threaded his fingers through her hair.

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

He didn’t give her time to protest or stop him, closing the gap between them and sealing his lips to hers. 

What he intended to start as a gentle, exploratory kiss quickly turned heated. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion both of them felt or the raw emotion churning between them, but Draco welcomed it. 

The moment broke for only a moment, Hermione tearing herself away from him to draw a heaving breath in, before she stood, offering her hand.

In it was a world of invitation, and his heart thundered in his ears as he placed his palm in hers and rose, the space between them scant. 

“Granger, if you don't want this—"

"Stop," she said, lifting her hand, and he immediately halted, his shoulders curving in on themselves. She sucked in a breath, quickly correcting as she gestured between them. "I didn't mean stop this." 

When her hand settled on his chest, he allowed his eyes to flutter shut once more.

Her next words were hushed, reverent, as she traced him, learning this new body. "Stop being self-deprecating. I want you, Malfoy." She paused, and then, "You've always been you. It's just..."

"Different," he finished, a hollow laugh leaving his throat.

"Different," she agreed, and her free hand curled under his jaw. "But not bad." 

She was the one to bridge the gap between them.

The trip to the bedroom was short, but several pauses to explore each other’s bodies lengthened the journey until they finally fell into bed, a tangle of limbs and laughter.

He stared down at her, eyes hooded and lips parted to allow his ragged breath free.

A tangle of curls fanned out over the pillow, worsened by his frantic fingers’ attempts to keep her as close to him as he could.

Somewhere along the way, they’d lost her blouse. Now, clad in only the simple white camisole, her flush darkened beneath the freckles encircling her collarbones. 

Still, disheveled and out of breath, she was a masterpiece. 

All the air knocked out of him at the soft smile lifting her lips. "You're fucking gorgeous, Granger." 

Her breath left her in a surprised huff. "You just—"

Slowly, he snaked his hand over her ribs, leaning down to press a kiss to the hollow of her throat. "How in Merlin's name I got so lucky, I'll never know."

Still, the moment felt fragile, like he’d blink and it would slip away from him.

Just days ago, she’d hated him.

His whole body shuddered, the headline flashing through his mind again— _ Hogwarts Prodigy Seduced by Death Eater: Source Close to Hermione Granger States the Brightest Witch of Her Age Could Be Unwitting Party to the Rumoured Uprisings _ —and he finally peeled his eyes open to look back at her. "I don't deserve this." 

Her touch was tentative when she sat up and leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his. "Please don't run from me," she whispered, desperation tinging her words. 

"Granger, I don't—"

"No, Draco Malfoy.” The change in her tone levelled him. “You went and made me fall in love with you; you don’t get to run away from me.” Her finger jabbed him in the chest, tears lining her eyes. “I  _ love  _ you, damn it.” 

And there they were. The words she’d whispered to him so many years ago beneath that same painting that had enraptured him from the very beginning. They held no less fervour than they did then, no less honesty.

Draco's heart stopped. His movements were frantic as he vaulted upright. "Say it again."

Hermione pulled back, splaying one hand over his chest, over the scar that bisected his torso, and cupping one hand along the nape of his neck. "I love you, Draco. I loved you when you were James—I love you now.”

Happiness and relief flooded through him as he peppered kisses over her cheeks, her lips, her forehead, wherever he could reach. "I love you, Hermione. I am so sorry for everything I've put you through." 

Her body fit in all the edges and crooks of his, and she rolled them, pulling herself astride him as she threw her head back with a laugh. 

"I would certainly hope so,” she snarked from atop him, radiant in the low light from the hall. “But there are some things you can do to make up for it," she murmured, sliding down his body before he could stop her. Her fingers trailed with her, undoing the tie that he'd been in for far too long and setting it alongside her.

Next was his oxford, and when she had him down to his briefs, she straddled him again, eyes raking over his nudity as he stared up at her.

"Granger—" he started, but she shook her head, running her hands over his torso. His expression was a study in desire and confliction, even as his hand closed over the generous swell of her hip. His throat worked, fighting for words as she ran a finger down his chest. “Hermione, are you sure?” 

The question visibly rocked her, and for a moment she fell back into self consciousness, closing herself off from him, and Draco thought the moment lost. He stared up at her, breath shallow to combat the inevitable pain her rejection would bring with it, but a shy glint lit her eyes, and she leaned back in to him.

"Don't," she whispered. "Just... just let me." 

Her fingers explored the surface of his skin, tracing the peaks and valleys in muscles. But she lingered on the pink and silver expanses that marked his skin, memories of a time when he'd been less than proud of who he was as a person.

Shutting his eyes, he tipped his head to the side. He couldn't look at her when she saw him like this—laid bare before her.

She took several steadying breaths as she blinked, her hand flexing on his bare skin. "These scars... they are not who you are anymore," she whispered. A wicked grin lit her features when she looked back up at him. “Now, there’s plenty of time for soft and slow later. I have some unresolved anger to work through after learning that you’ve lied to me for the last thirteen years." 

Draco was more than willing to oblige.

He took his time divulging her of the rest of her clothes, much to her obvious dismay, but he’d never tired of the act. Even after all this time, he could hardly believe that it was real.

That she was real.

Finally, when nothing laid between them anymore, her gaze met his, wide and vulnerable as she positioned him at her entrance as he rose up to cradle her body against his. 

And then she moved.

Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, groaning at the stretch as he entered her. His teeth sunk into her shoulder, quieting the curse that slipped from him. 

Gods, he'd never tire of this. 

When she was fully seated on him, she gasped, her hands coming up to brace herself on his shoulders, something akin to wonder in her eyes. 

Gathering her legs beneath her, Hermione rose, his length sliding out of her until just the head was slotted in her entrance. When she descended again, Draco bucked up to meet her, and she threw her head back with a soft sigh.

Draco would have been content to spend the evening at the leisurely pace, but Hermione was intent otherwise. She braced her hands on his chest, rolling her hips with a groan, and Draco was lost.

All motion became a race of skin and skittering hands. From her shoulders to her breasts to her hips, his hands wandered, matching the map she made of his skin and marking the scars they both wore.

And slowly, through the heat, they reforged their relationship anew. 

Before he could catch a breath, Hermione was trembling atop him, her rhythm faltering as she laced her fingers through his and came with a breathy gasp.

Like clockwork, her end wrought his own. Tension coiled around him, and he pumped into her once more, her name a litany on his lips before he stilled.

Draco stared at her, chest heaving. “Where in Merlin’s name did that come from?”

She could feel a flush rise in her cheeks. “I was angry?” Rolling towards him, she tentatively stretched a hand over his waist and rested her shoulder on his bicep. “Besides, you started it.”

A scoff escaped him. “Yeah, well, you definitely ended it.” 

Their laughter shook the bed, and silence settled between them again.

Hermione thought he’d fallen asleep, but he shifted after a few minutes, propping himself up on his elbow to stare down at her. His finger trailed along her cheekbone, his gaze serious, like he was trying to memorise her. 

“Did you mean it?” he whispered, expression guarded.

Brow puckering, she stared up at him. “Mean what?”

He gritted his teeth and then whispered, “Did you mean it when you said that you love me.” 

Her heart lurched, and she tipped her head, kissing the inside of his palm. “I mean it. I promise.” 

His expression was still guarded as he peered down at her, but he nodded, moving to roll away again, so Hermione sat up, pulling him with her. “I love you, Draco. No matter what you look like or what you’ve done in your past—we have a lot to work through, but none of it has made me stop loving you.”

A breathy exaltation left him as he pulled her into a tight hug. “Merlin, I love you, Granger.”

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms for several long moments before Hermione pulled him down with her and tangled them in the sheets, if only to keep the guilt of leaving Elara and Archer from rendering her mired in despair once more. 

  
**Note** : Cleo’s name is an homage to the Shakespearean origin of Hermione’s name and is short for Cleopatra. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves in shame* hey y'all. Sorry for the radio silence last week. It was TENSE AF in the U.S. and between the election and job interviews, I completely spaced on the update. BUT, good news is that all your good juju did the dang thing! I landed the contract I was really vying for, so I'm super excited to share that with you all! We've only got two more full-size chapters to go + the epilogue, so we're rocking and rolling right on to the end here. As always, I so appreciate all of your lovely thoughts and kind words as we go along! Endless thanks to my alphas + betas for their help on this as always! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Sunlight streamed through the window and warmed Hermione's side of the bed.

She'd have thought it was uncomfortably warm under normal circumstances—the way the light refracted through the glass seemed to cut harsher than direct sunlight—but the warm body holding her possessively to its side only served to exacerbate the sticky heat.

In repose, Draco's face was far calmer than it had been the night before. Even in his openness with her, his expression had held a pinch of foreboding, a careful trepidation that betrayed just how tightly wound he had been. He'd still expected her to rebuke him. 

She couldn't find it in her to be offended.

Not after the shared history they had, nor after finding out the motivation for his deceit for so long. 

The wounds were still raw, the sting of betrayal still sharp if she lingered on it, but she could feel the fresh start between them just as clearly as if she'd found a hidden masterpiece beneath a layer of paint.

Draco was that masterpiece. Hidden beneath the veneer of James was a wealth of a wizard. 

Hermione looked forward to puzzling out what that meant for them, even if it made her heart race in both fear and anticipation.

"You're staring." His voice rumbled through her, lip quirking when he cracked an eye open.

A flush raced through her, but she didn't deny it. The morning light through his hair lit him in a halo.

Even if she'd wanted to protest, she couldn't, not when he looked like that.

Slowly, giving her ample time to pull away, Draco leaned into her, bracketing her body with his as he lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was sweet, much calmer than the multitude they'd shared the night before, but Hermione could still feel the heat and longing lying dormant beneath it.

A dam had broken between them, and she couldn't wait to ride out the flood.

When he pulled away, she offered him a shy smile. "Good morning," she whispered, voice raw from the sounds he’d wrought from her the night before and the tears she'd shed into his chest in the quiet moments afterwards.

No matter how she tried to forget, the guilt in her core wouldn't let her.

But today... today they'd get Elara and Archer. And whoever had taken them would have Hermione to answer to.

Hermione would be a force to be reckoned with.

Draco pulled back, gaze flicking between her eyes. He was close enough that his breath fanned over her cheeks, his nose brushing hers. She could see the joy in his eyes when he answered her greeting with a simple, "Morning."

For a small shared moment, everything was normal. Her children were sleeping down the hall, and her husband was wrapped around her.

The shades of light behind him shifted, the deep orange hues of the impending sunrise shifting and brightening to bright, pearlescent blue, and the moment shattered.

At the window, Kingsley's lynx prowled carefully, awaiting its entrance to be granted.

Draco sighed, dropping his forehead to her shoulder with a quiet swear, but in the next moment he pushed off her and strolled to the window.

It took every bit of mental—and physical—fortitude that Hermione could muster not to drag his bare arse back into bed as he strode to the window and waved the warding away.

James had been fit in an unassuming sort of way. He'd trained, she recalled, for long years by playing rugby—another question she'd need to ask him: was it really rugby?—but the results of it showed when the glamour was gone.

Broad shoulders slimmed to a trim waist, and little dimples winked just above the swell of his arse.

Hermione was well aware that she was staring, but some things couldn't be helped.

After all, he was her husband—if he was going to strut around naked as the day he was born, then she deserved to get a look. Especially if it momentarily distracted her racing heart with another reason to palpitate.

In the next breath, the lynx Patronus soared through the open window, its tail flicking expectantly. 

Draco seemed to read the creature's expression as it settled on the end of the bed eyeing him, and he muttered a swear beneath his breath before he dipped into the closet and returned clad in a pair of soft pyjama pants.

Satisfied, the Patronus opened its mouth. " _We have traced unusual magic to the Lestrange home_."

Hermione's blood ran cold, her fear mirrored in Draco's.

The Patronus continued. " _It appears to be defensive—though I'm not entirely sure that's even a correct assessment." Kingsley paused, his voice contemplative when the lynx spoke again. "We'd like you both to arrive at the Ministry at your earliest convenience. To plan extraction_."

Hermione pushed herself out of bed, torn between terror and righteous anger. She knew Kingsley was helping them, and theoretically it should be easier to examine the situation by putting emotion aside and viewing this as any other case, but...

This wasn't any other case; they were her children, and she'd ignored her feelings far longer than she should have.

Quickly, she and Draco dressed, the easy idleness of the morning forgotten in their haste.

* * *

The Auror Headquarters were just as cold and clinical as Draco remembered. 

Even the conference room they'd taken felt sterile—shiny, black tiles lined the floor and stiff-backed chairs ringed a half-moon table. Kingsley sat on the opposite side, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he stared between them. 

"No objections?" Disbelief laced his tone.

Oh, Draco had many objections.

A quick glance at Hermione revealed her agreeance. Her body was coiled tight in her chair, but it was her eyes that sent pride lancing through him.

Kignsley really didn't want to deal with everything going through Draco’s head.

In a fit of compassion lest Hermione throw everything she had at the Minister, Draco leaned towards the other man, laying his palms flat on the table. "Minister, I'm not sure we heard you correctly." It was an olive branch if only in appearance—they'd heard him. Neither of them could believe it, though. "You expect us to stay here, at the Ministry, removed from the extraction detail to—what? Protect the ‘integrity’ of the investigation?"

Kingsley had the grace to look uncomfortable. "That is correct, yes."

"Not happening," Hermione said through gritted teeth..

Draco wondered how terrible it made him to relish that he got to witness her let it loose.

Her chair squealed as she leaned forward, fire in her posture. "You knew, for _months,_ that something was occuring in the wizarding world—something nefarious. You knew it involved my family." 

The words lanced through the air, hitting Kingsley square in the chest if the way he rubbed at it uncomfortably was any indication. With another grimace, the Minister nodded. "We did."

"Yet you chose not to inform us." She didn't ask this time. "And you knew it was very likely that James Ainsley was actually Draco Malfoy. You thought him to be involved with the activity that the Aurors had documented—the disappearances, the spellwork, all of it." 

Again, Kingsley tightened his lips. "Miss Granger, you have to understand that I—"

"I don't have to understand a thing, Kings." Hermione barked out a half-hearted laugh, her eyes brimming with tears. "If you had just done _something_ , we might not even be in this mess. You have connections, you have the resources, to stop everything in its tracks. You saw what happened when Fudge ignored Voldemort’s second rise."

Her voice lowered to a whisper, accusation in every syllable. "I thought the wizarding world was done using us as pawns after Harry was very nearly killed." 

Draco felt uncomfortable heat rising in his throat. How long had they been another ace in someone else's game? How long would he allow his children to play a part in this, no matter how small or large?

He loosened his clenched hand, reaching across the table for Hermione's. It was a lifeline, and she accepted it without breaking her glare at Kingsley. "Here are the terms: Draco and I will approach the Lestrange property with Merrythought. That's _it_." She raised her hand to stop Kingsley's protest, silencing him before she continued. "A small detail of Aurors will follow behind us as backup. They should arrive no earlier than fifteen minutes after we depart. Plenty of time for us to enter the property and dismantle the warding."

Kingsley drew his lips into a taut line. "And how do we know that you're capable of dismantling a blood warding, Miss Granger?"

Bristling, Draco interceded. "The blood warding is very likely to be keyed to the Black family line; everything else in the case has, so it stands to reason that this will be no different. We'll use my blood to dismantle the warding. As it stands, myself, and my mother, are the only available wizards for the job."

"And if you send a detail of Aurors in first without properly dismantling the warding, my children stand even further at risk," Hermione ground out, her eyes determined. "And I'd prefer not to leave them at the mercy of the Ministry and this witch any longer.”

Kingsley worked his jaw, the grind of his teeth nearly audible, but after several more tense seconds, he dipped his head, silent in his concession. “Done.”

* * *

From the exterior, Lestrange Manor looked very much like the Ministry had recorded: failing and decrepit, the windows shattered out and vines twisting around spires as it settled into the passage of time.

Draco knew otherwise.

Where the Black family was skilled in familial magic, the Lestranges were no stranger to magic of glamours. Paired with the Black family lineage, it was little wonder that the manor had stood undisturbed for so long. 

The perfect place to disappear—hidden right under their noses all along. 

For as much as he wanted to charge in, wand waving, something told him to still himself. 

"There's concealing magic on the brickwork," Hermione whispered, her wand arcing in subtle strikes before her. "It's reminiscent of that on Hogwarts; instead of sending Muggles away, it looks like the charm has been altered to key to the oaths that Aurors take upon swearing in." She leaned forward, trying to see through the underbrush. "It's likely why the Ministry was unaware that it was intact."

Draco swore to himself. "Shouldn't they have been able to detect it?"

"Not necessarily," Merrythought answered, his jaw set in a grim line; he seemed to be fighting the urge to turn around if the taut line of his shoulders bowed towards the manor was any indication. "There's been so little evidence of uprisings in the last few years that the less senior Aurors have become complacent. It's a problem that the department is working to correct.”

"Obviously not quickly enough." The retort slipped through Draco's lips unchecked, and though he saw Merrythought's desire to correct him, the wizard wisely kept his mouth shut. 

Hermione rocked backwards, determination evident in the taut methodical wave of her wand and the way her eyes continued to dart over the building’s facade. "What's the plan?"

"There's not one," Merrythought answered, "other than the usual. We dismantle the wards as agreed upon with Kingsley, and the team of Aurors that arrives immediately afterwards will be sent in to extract the children; they'll conduct a thorough search of the premises to determine that it's safe to enter. You both will stay out of harm’s way until it's been determined that there is no danger to your person."

"No." 

Merrythought turned to Draco, brows lifted. "You have a better idea, Malfoy?" 

Draco didn’t miss the challenge in the words, but he rolled his shoulders, twirling his wand between his fingers. "You read the same note that we all did; we weren't to involve Aurors. Whoever has the children knows by now that we did. It's very likely why they rushed the timeline. We have no idea what's happening inside that house, and I'll be damned if I allow someone else to go in there and put Elara and Archer at further risk." 

"We're going in there, whether you like it or not, Merrythought. You can either accompany us or get out of the way." Hermione widened her stance, preparing for pushback. "I've petrified friends for less." Hermione's resolve matched his own, and Draco felt his shoulders loosen at the knowledge that they were a unified front. 

Merrythought frowned, studying the building. “The longer we argue about this, the more time we lose.” With a muttered curse, he turned to them. “Neither of you are to leave my line of sight. Is that clear?” At their simultaneous nod, he added, “And no charging into battle without pausing to consider the consequences.” 

“I can’t promise that,” Hermione retorted. “Not when every minute counts.” 

A grim shake of his head was Merrythought’s only response—the wizard was smart enough not to push Hermione, already at her wit’s end, and Draco felt pride flare in his chest. Merrythought turned towards the manor, discomfort in the ramrod straight line of his back. “Let’s go, then. Careful, checking for warding just like at Malfoy Manor.” 

Draco drew forward, carefully examining the dome of warding that stretched over Lestrange Manor. Beside him, Hermione cast several diagnostic charms.

“It appears to be similar to the same warding that was used on the cave in which Voldemort concealed one of his Horcruxes,” Hermione muttered, her wand leaving ephemeral arcs of blue light over the dome. 

Draco sucked in a breath, steadying the sudden fear that raced through him. A distant, childish part of him feared the connection—perhaps Voldeort hadn’t been killed after all. Maybe, all these years later, he was lying in wait to punish Draco for his defection.

If Hermione noticed his rising panic, she didn’t give any indication. She took careful, measured steps along the perimeter of the dome, tracing runes and sigils into the magic of it until she stopped several metres away, her spellwork illuminating the outlines of a faint, vaguely human-sized arch. 

“Here,” she said, tapping her wand against it. “You were right—it’s keyed to a blood link. If I were to venture a guess, it requires Black blood.”

Draco was already moving, his wand slashing down his open palm as he went. Hermione made a quiet noise of distress, but he’d already squeezed the wound, and blood sluiced over his fingertips. 

Without preamble, he splayed his hand against the dome.

Seconds passed, stretching into minutes, but nothing happened. No great tremors followed his actions, and as time passed, Draco’s hopes guttered out.

Maybe it’d been a distraction the whole time, luring them away from the kids in the hopes of the clock running out before they could track them down.

Just as Draco pulled away, his chest heaving with the effort to keep back the roar of anger that was building in his gut, the outline shimmered. In the blink of an eye, the wards disappeared, revealing the expanse of Lestrange property beyond. 

Cutting his gaze to Granger’s, Draco took an experimental step over the boundary. He didn’t incinerate, nothing fell from the sky to crush him, and with a final shaky breath in which he thanked his lucky stars, he motioned Hermione and Merrythought onward.

* * *

The manor's grounds were manicured beyond the bubble of the spell. It was evident that someone had been caring for the property in the years since the war, and Hermione's lip curled at the Ministry's negligence.

They should have been more thorough in their examination of Death Eater properties.

Much like she'd done at the Malfoy estate, she swept her wand over the ground before her, searching for residual magic that might hinder their approach. 

Even as she walked closer to the imposing structure, she could feel the weight of expectation on her shoulders—the knowledge that she was being watched secondary only to the riot of nerves and maternal rage coiling unchecked in her gut. 

Draco spoke out of the side of his mouth to her. "Do you feel it?"

A singular nod of her head confirmed her answer. "The west wing of the manor." 

She tracked Draco's gaze, watching it sweep over the windows. Sconces were lit in recessed hallways, just visible through heavy velvet drapes obscuring the rooms beyond panes of glass. 

"There," he whispered, his wand jerking in its sweep over the ground.

In the uppermost spire, a curtain shifted as though disturbed by an errant gust of wind. 

A face appeared, both familiar and foreign in appearance, and Hermione froze, fear racing up her spine. She knew that face, the gaunt hollows beneath wild eyes and even wilder hair.

Bellatrix. 

She was rooted to the spot, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the witch’s manic laughter rang through her ears some fifteen years later.

"Hermione, we've got to move." Draco cupped her elbow, attempting to drag her forwards, but Hermione couldn't move, her feet rooted to the spot.

"Did you see her? Bellatrix, she's—" Hermione's words lodged in her throat, but Draco was there, dragging her into him. 

"It's not her, Hermione. Bella died in the war—you saw Molly attack her." His words made sense on a rational level, but she couldn't quite quell the sense of fear that had wrapped around her throat.

Bellatrix had her children.

Before Hermione could stop herself, she ran, scanning for magical boobytraps be damned. Her feet pounded over the ground, grass ripping in her wake as she went. Behind her, Merrythought bellowed for her to stop, but she couldn't. 

The manor doors opened before her without prompting. There was no great squeal of hinges or fanfare upon their unlatching, no servants to greet her in the empty corridor, no portraits donning the walls that would serve to warn her of danger. The only thing that accompanied her was her own ragged breathing and the righteous anger and fear that thundered in her veins. 

It was that fear that wrenched her words free of the vice grip that was her throat. “Elara! Archer!” 

Behind her, Malfoy and Merrythought charged into the room, their hair askew and breathing ragged. 

"Granger, what in the ever-loving fuck do you—" Merrythought began, his eyes going wide. "Get down!" 

Hermione hit the floor, scrambling to roll as wandfire lanced over her shoulder and shattered one of the large oak doors. She swore to herself, fumbling for her wand even as she shouted a wandless shield charm overtop them. 

Spellfire barraged them. From all sides, Hermione could just make out shadowed figures standing in doorways and in the double staircases arching up before them.

She couldn't see Draco.

A whole new fear gripped her heart, that she would lose both her husband—this new-found love that she needed to explore all over again—and her children in one fell swoop, and she pushed herself to her feet. 

"Enough." The wandfire died immediately at the voice that commanded them. Muffled footsteps followed it, traipsing out of the shadows on the second floor landing.

This close, Hermione could see how she'd mistaken the witch in the window for Bellatrix. But without the shadows of the manor casting her in greyscale, the wild curls that cascaded around her face were silvery, the tips dyed blue. It softened her appearance, accentuating the soft curves of cheeks that betrayed the woman’s youth, though her sharp cheekbones complemented deep-set green eyes.

The deep, unabiding sorrow reflected in this witch's gaze rocked Hermione. 

"I wondered when you would arrive," the witch uttered, her voice, smoke and honey, lilting through the room. "Welcome to my home, Lestrange Manor." 

Hermione fought the sympathy that suddenly assaulted her. "Where are Elara and Archer?"

The woman cocked her head, studying Hermione intently. When her gaze shifted to the left, Hermione dropped back a step, leaning into Draco's steady presence. "It's good to see you again, Draco." 

Hermione bristled, but Draco shot back, "Delphini—do you go by Riddle or Black?” Draco cocked his head, studying her. “I should have seen the resemblance then."

The witch offered a smile and a slight shrug of her shoulder, as though she were brushing off an annoying bug. "A trick of the light, a tweak of the appearance. I wouldn't have you recognise me for who I was before the groundwork was laid." 

"Why?" Hermione whispered, her throat tight around the inquiry. Something in her bled to know the truth, to distract the witch long enough that the remaining Aurors might arrive. 

The woman's face flickered, the sorrow returning. "I'm afraid the explanation is longer than you might allow me." Gesturing to the hall around her, she descended the stairs, her shoes clopping over the worn wood. 

"I promise to give you the time if—" Hermione's voice broke, her fear making a resurgence. "If you promise that the children will be returned safely." 

Delphini cocked her head, genuine surprise lighting her features. "The children were never in danger." 

All the air in the room seemed to have escaped, leaving Hermione without the ability to form anything intelligent beyond a whispered, "What?" 

"Would you like proof?" Delphini stopped before them, her hands held before her in supplication. "The children are upstairs, but they are free to do as they please. You need only call them again; the silencing charms have been cancelled."

Draco stepped alongside Hermione, his throat working as she stared up at him. Merrythought joined them, his wand held firmly in his grasp. At his stiff nod, Draco cleared his throat. "Elara? Archer?" 

The silence that descended on them was deafening, and Hermione tried to quell the part of her soul that told her that her children were gone—that this was a ploy that the strange woman before her had concocted to inflict as much pain as she could. Her fingers itched to wrap around the woman's throat and end it for herself— 

Footsteps sounded.

Followed by giggling.

She knew that laughter.

And Elara appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes alight and hair cascading down her back in a riot of curls. Archer stood just behind her, his hand wrapping protectively over his sister's shoulder lest she get too close to the stairs. His eyes flickered to Draco’s figure, suspicious at the way he fit into Hermione’s space, but Hermione would explain it all to him later. Once they were away from here and safe and she could hold them in her arms and promise them this would _never_ happen again. 

The children.

They were _alive_.

Despite the overwhelming evidence that they had been over the past few days, a small part of her had braced itself for the worst, and Hermione’s heart finally began to beat in her chest again. Knees buckling, she reached for Draco as a sob of relief tore from her throat. 

"They can't come down the stairs—not yet, at least," Delphini said, her gaze ticking between Draco and Hermione. "There is warding in place until we reach an agreement." 

"An agreement?" Draco scoffed, derision in his tone. "You've sent us chasing down false leads for the last five days, and you want to reach an agreement?" 

Delphini's countenance hardened. "They were not false leads. All of this has been carefully planned to avoid other futures—futures with terrible consequences for all of us." 

Hermione jolted, searching the other woman’s gaze. Perhaps it was the earnest, open expression with which Delphini stared down at them, but something in Hermione believed her; despite her loathing of divination, there was truth in the way the woman spoke . “What do you know?” 

Delphini reached beneath her blouse and withdrew a battered Time Turner. With a flick of her wrist, it soared through the air, landing at Merrythought’s feet. Without lowering his wand, he swept it into a pouch he kept slung around his waist. Delphini waited until his gaze was on her to answer. “With that Time Turner, I visited twenty different versions of the future, each one more dismal than the last.” 

Hermione felt her jaw drop open. “That’s _impossible_. Skipping through time like that—it’d drive even the strongest witch or wizard mad.” 

“I wish I could argue that point; my grasp on reality is tenuous at best, but—” Delphini paused, gaze unfocusing as she searched for an explanation. “The realities I saw were horrific; witches and wizards dying out, their magic revealed to Muggles. Persecution like nothing our kind has seen before.” 

Draco swore under his breath, his grip tightening on Hermione’s hand. 

"How long?" Hermione asked. 

Delphini's expression was uncertain, bordering on a fear that threatened to drag her under if the set of shoulders was any indication. "I'm thirty years old. Or I would be—if I hadn't abandoned my timeline. Now, I'm not entirely sure."

Hermione wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but she didn't push the witch any further. "Why the children?"

At that, Delphini faltered, her gaze flickering towards Elara and Archer. They showed no fear of the witch—the image must have been taken shortly after she'd snatched them from Grimmauld Place, Archer's protective instincts presenting themselves when confronted by a strange witch. "Your reputation precedes you, Hermione Granger." The comment did little to ease Hermione's ire, and she could feel her shoulders draw up around her ears, hand tightening on her wand as the number of reasons not to attack the witch dwindled yet again. "If your protective nature with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley in your school years were any less documented, I may have given up entirely.”

Draco’s patience was wearing thin, his face pinking with restraint. “Cryptic answers aren’t to your benefit if you’d like to avoid the receiving end of offensive magic.”

With a dip of her head, Delphini settled on the step, indicating that the children should do the same. With a small giggle, Elara and Archer sat behind her. 

Hermione watched the exchange carefully, her breath shallow. 

Delphini continued. “I went back near ten times, to that day at Hogwarts. May 2nd, 1998. If nothing else, I just wanted to see him. My father."

Voldemort. Tom Riddle. It was the first acknowledgement of who her father was, and it lanced through them all like a blade. Hermione could hear the sharp breath that Draco sucked in, his complexion paling further. "And I saw you then. Both of you. You, in the Great Hall"—she gestured at Hermione—"peering into each face of the dead as though you could will them back."

Hermione remembered that moment more starkly than any other part of the final battle. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Even Lavender. All of them laid out on the floor of the Great Hall, unblinking. Unseeing. Their bodies rapidly cooling as rigor mortis set in. It was easier then to dissect their passing with a scientific detachment, just as she had compartmentalised the children’s disappearance all week. 

It hurt less than remembering that her fallen friends were once vibrant, whole _people_ with dreams and hopes and a vision for a future that they would never see.

That they had died for.

Delphini's voice drew Hermione's attention back to her, quiet and contemplative in its smoky drawl. "And you, Draco, fleeing from a situation you had no say in, that you were thrust into without ceremony. Every line of you wound taut, regretful." 

She tucked her hands behind her back as she stared down at them, and it was only then that Hermione realised how slight the witch was. For as voluminous as her hair was and elaborately as she'd painted herself, she carried the air of a woman much younger than she appeared. Her body was wiry from malnourishment, dark hollows lining her cheeks and rimming her eyes. She looked _tired_ , more world weary than Hermione could even contemplate—not even after her own mad dash against the clock with Harry and Ron in their seventh year.

Part of her panged with sympathy, though her maternal rage shoved it down.

Delphini heaved in a shaking breath, looking between them before she continued. "The first time, I went back far enough to see her, too. Not long to change anything—just... enough to know." 

Fingers playing at the tips of her hair, it wasn’t hard to determine who Delphini meant. Bellatrix, the mother she never knew. Again, Hermione felt her heart cracking for the woman.

She never had an opportunity to be anything but a product of her ancestry.

"I thought... I thought maybe history had it wrong. Always written by the victors, as they say—I hoped it was a gross misrepresentation, an excuse to vindicate her loss by a side that was intimidated by power and prestige." Delphini sighed, sweeping upright with her hands before her. “But when I saw the way she raved at you in the Manor, Hermione, I knew… there was no saving her, nothing I could do to change it. And still I tried to. And the consequences…” She shuddered, the ghost of horrors neither Hermione nor Draco would ever be privy to crossing her face. “They were enough to make me pause.”

* * *

The witch stood before them without her wand, susceptible to any attack that might befall her.

For a split second, Draco wondered whether it was all a sick joke. Whether someone had been in on the plan to bring them all down or if it was really as simple as this woman—Delphini, his cousin—made it out to be. 

“One slight alteration—stopping your escape from the Manor—resulted in Harry Potter’s death,” Delphini said, regret heavy in her tone. “And in the future that I knew from that one alteration, the Wizarding World was in ruins. Voldemort threw Muggle-borns into camps or killed them. Muggles were murdered openly in the streets. And the father that I hoped he might be… I knew then that there was not a chance to change him. And yet I tried, again and again, the changes no less devastating to any of you.”

None of them made a sound in the room, but pops of Apparition in the distance alerted them to the Aurors’ arrival. 

Still, Delphini continued, lost in her memories and regret. “Hermione was married to Ronald Weasley and was miserable. Draco was a widow, his son—Scorpius in that life—growing up without a family beyond the walls of Malfoy Manor. It was miserable." She cut her gaze away, the skin at the corners of her eyes pinching together to betray her uncertainty. 

Hermione was the one to break the silence. "And what was your goal in coming back? Why did you hide it all?"

Delphini shrugged. "There was no plan beyond nudging people in the right direction—it only takes one decision to change the course of history.” She began a slow descent of the steps, and Draco nudged Hermione behind him, a buffer should Delphini strike. “I've seen what it was like for the Dark Lord's followers to rise." She gestured to the room at large, to the figures lurking in the shadows around them. "And it took a while, but they're all here—every last one of his living supporters, Death Eaters marked, Imperiused to follow my command with no restrictions. I’m prepared to offer them to you in exchange for your leniency."

"Why?" The word fell from his lips in a disbelieving huff. "Why put everything you know at risk for the slim chance that it would go your way?" 

Delphini's expression was full of heartbreak that Draco knew personally. "I have long hoped that someone would be able to prove that we're not all so bad as our legacy before us." Her fingers steepled before her. "Hatred, division... it's all a symptom of a rotten system. I've seen the way that it infects the future, much like it affected you and your friends. I’ve felt the way it curdles the blood, withers away even the strongest moral obligations. For the sake of my living relatives, I wanted to help them avoid that anguish." 

When she finally peered down at them again, Delphini’s expression was shuttered.

For just a moment, Draco could see himself in her. 

Delphini lifted her arms again."For an opportunity, I would do whatever it takes."

Hermione was less forgiving. "And our children should be the collateral for your scheme?"

At this, Delphini had the wherewithal to cringe, her expression falling. "I do sincerely apologise for that." Her gesture dissolved the barrier at the top of the stairs, and both Elara and Archer rushed past her without fanfare, their arms wide as they swept towards their mother. "I have been without a mother for as long as I can remember, but I'm no stranger to the power of a mother's love. I knew you would come for them, and I could prepare an exchange with the Dark Lord’s surviving followers. I knew you would pay whatever price I named to get them back; I simply needed you to listen."

Her gaze ticked over Draco’s shoulder, and he turned, curiosity overwhelming him as the children latched onto Hermione, tears running down her face. The weight of the Auror department stood at his back, but in the shadows, Narcissa watched on, tears streaming down her face as she lifted shaking fingers to her mouth. 

His mother was a jaded woman, but he knew she’d loved Bellatrix, even in her flaws. She’d been her sister, and the madness Bella had descended into hadn’t broken the love, only soured it. 

Without his mother, he'd have nothing.

It was as simple as that. No matter what Kingsley claimed, he very well could have been withering away in an Azkaban cell if Narcissa hadn't fought tooth and nail to ensure his survival.

Perhaps he wasn’t the right person to do so, but Draco had never been the one to extend a hand of forgiveness thus far in his life.

And perhaps it was time he did so.

His footsteps hitched as he stalked forward, a grim set to his brow. It must have been apparent in his features, because Delphini recoiled just visibly, a grim set to her lips. Waiting for the worst.

Instead, he bent at the waist, slipping his wand into the holster hidden beneath the leg of his tailored trousers. 

And when he stood, he offered her a half-hearted smile. Guarded, still slightly suspicious. But it was a smile, an olive branch that she recognised, and her shoulders deflated, tears springing to her cheeks as he spoke. "We'll figure it out."

As Aurors streamed past him, he cut his gaze to Hermione over his shoulder who, though her expression still bordered the edge of maternal rage that she was very much entitled to, nodded. When he turned back to Delphini, already allowing the Aurors to cuff the magical handcuffs around her wrist, his words were genuine. "We always do." 

The road would be long, and Draco would not forgive easily, but deep in his heart, he felt the beginnings of peace begin to swell as Elara launched herself into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yeets this into the interwebs and runs away*
> 
> *Pops back in to thank Farmulousa, LadyKenz347, & In Dreams for their Brit-picking alphabet work before re-yeeting myself lol*


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *awkwardly crabwalks in and yeets chapter at you like I didn't forget to post on Thursday*

**Chapter 12**

The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur for Hermione, but all that mattered was that she had Elara and Archer. 

Both children were relatively unscathed except for Elara's skinned knee, which she swore she got while playing with the broom that Delphini had allowed them to bring from Harry and Cho’s house.

Even with the reassurance, Hermione couldn't help but watch them both closely as Archer read and Elara quietly played with a stack of files abandoned in the corner of Kingsley’s office. Draco and Hermione went over the events of the day for the twentieth time with the Ministry-appointed stenographer. 

Kingsley had tried to convince her to leave the kids with one of the Aurors while completing paperwork, but Hermione wasn't about to let them out of her sight for the foreseeable future.

She hadn't even been able to sleep the night before for fear of something happening should she look away too long.

"Ms. Granger?" A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Hermione peered up into the face of the nervous Auror who'd taken Draco's memory—Donahue, she recalled. "Solicitor Parkinson will be here shortly to go over the press conference with you both since she's agreed to be your joint representative." His gaze ticked to Elara and Archer. "If you'd like, I could—" 

Draco waved him away. "Thank you, Auror Donahue, but that won't be necessary. The children are fine here." 

The other man pursed his lips when Elara sent a tower of paper crashing to the floor, but he didn't contradict Draco and ducked back out into the hall.

"Bloody hell, you'd think they'd get it after the hundredth time we declined the help." He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing absently at his cheeks.

For the first time all week, he'd shaved, clearing away the week's worth of stubble that had grown in the interim of their children’s rescue. 

Hermione hadn't yet tried to convince him that the beard was a good look, but... 

There was time. 

So much time, it seemed, that it stretched out before them in an unbroken line, full of promise that Hermione hadn't anticipated so eagerly in many years. 

It was unusual, this new life that she could feel growing up before them. And she wasn't naive to the fact that they still had problems to work through. Theirs had been a rapid reconciliation, borne out of the fear that they both felt in their core at Elara and Archer's disappearance. Hermione had already begun researching marriage counsellors in the wizarding world, despite how antiquated the practice was there; surely there was a witch or wizard out there whose practice was derived from or informed by Muggle approaches that she’d feel comfortable spilling her many insecurities to.

She doubted they'd find a Muggle practitioner who would look past the fact that she'd married Draco thinking him another man.

Even still, it was frightening, the notion of being so vulnerable with someone she didn’t know. She didn’t even share those thoughts with Harry and Ron… but perhaps it was time she stopped relying on herself alone.

As she pondered, Draco rose from the table, crossing the room to kneel next to the children as they dutifully stacked the papers that Elara had scattered around the room. Archer was still wary of him, eyeing Draco over the top of his book, but Elara helped to bridge that gap between them.

“Look!” she crowed, waving her little hand in front of the stack of papers. As though she’d commanded it, the top half of it lifted from the bottom half incrementally then teetered and crashed to the floor.

Archer groaned. “Again? It’s your turn to pick it up.” 

Laughing, Draco removed his wand and pointed it at the papers as he chucked Elara under the chin. “How about I help you out?” 

Happily clapping her hands, Elara watched his wand swish and flick over the stack as it arranged and rearranged itself at his command, and Archer abandoned them to the task with a careful bookmark to denote his place. Though he tried to measure his steps, his destination was obvious, and he stopped in front of Hermione. “Mum?”

Bending, Hermione tried to ignore the weary crackle of her bones as she knelt to get to his level. After so many days of non-stop work, her body felt much older than it should for her age—perhaps another sign that she needed to take some time to heal. “Yes, Archer?”

His gaze flit back to Draco, and he chewed on his lip before asking, “Is he… is it really Dad?” 

Sympathy panged in Hermione’s chest, and she nodded slowly. “He’s your father. He just… looks a little different, is all.”

“Why?” Archer asked, his hand fluttering to his hair. In such close proximity to Draco, Hermione could clearly see their resemblance, and it struck her not for the first time that she should have recognised Draco in her son far sooner. 

Pursing her lips, Hermione tried to choose her words carefully. “Your father has a complicated past, and it’s not my story to tell. If you want to know, I think he’d tell you.” She turned Archer to face her. “It’s okay not to be sure right now—it’s a really big change. But he still loves you and would do anything for you.”

Archer nodded, his face still conflicted. “He doesn’t _feel_ any different. He just”—his nose wrinkled—“he looks like me. Or I look like him?” 

Hermione had to stifle the chuckle that tried to escape her at her son’s perplexion. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Aunt Delphini said that he saw some scary stuff when he was my age,” Archer stage whispered, but Draco’s back straightened nonetheless, hyper-aware of the conversation they were having. 

Hermione made a noise in the back of her throat. Hearing Archer refer to the Black witch as his aunt rankled something deep in her stomach, but she tried to bury the complicated knot of emotions it tangled in her. “He did—he had to hide because he was scared of what would happen to him and your grandmother. But he knew that you and your sister were too important to keep hiding, so he came to save you both.” 

Archer smiled, looking back at her. “So he’s kind of like Uncle Harry, then? He’s a saviour!” 

Draco made a strangled noise across the room, and this time Hermione let her laughter escape. “He’s kind of like Uncle Harry, yeah, you could say that.”

“Only much better looking and far cooler than Harry Potter,” Draco drawled, pivoting so that the small space between them was closed. His attention was focused on Archer, contrition evident in the furrow between his brows. “What do you say you help Elara clean up and I’ll promise to tell you everything you want to know when we get home, yeah?”

Carefully, Archer nodded, though his usual hug for his father was noticeably absent. 

Though Draco tried to hide his wince, his expression was pinched when he stood.

“It’ll take some time, but he’ll forgive you,” Hermione whispered, watching the children work together to clean up their mess. “Just remember how much he hero-worshipped Harry when he figured out who he was—he’ll do the same to you.” 

The teasing fell short of Draco as he pursed his lips. “I’ll make sure he knows—the good _and_ the bad. I don’t want him to repeat my mistakes because I couldn’t see past who I wanted my father to be.” 

Hermione curled into his side as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re a good father, Draco. You’ll get it right.” 

Before Draco could address the complicated mix of emotions that arose in him at Hermione’s praises, Pansy entered the room, her briefcase clasped tightly before her. For the first time in days, Draco cracked a smile that had nothing to do with finally having his children home and no secrets between himself and Granger.

Pansy had dressed down for the occasion. Her usual sky-high heels were more demure kitten heels, and her pencil skirt didn't cling _quite_ so tightly to her legs. Even her hair had been tamed out of its blunt bob into something that even the most senior of Ministry officials wouldn’t find offensive.

"Pansy, don't tell me you dressed down on my account," he snarked, standing and crossing the room towards his old friend. 

Her smile was biting. "Of course not, Draco. It's for the media; they take better to women who aren't so visually challenging. It’s difficult work trying to dismantle the patriarchal system of the wizarding world when they treat high heels and short hair as an affront to their masculinity." The frown and roll of her eyes gave away her exasperation, but Hermione nudged between them before Draco could respond.

"Pansy, thank you." Hermione's face was pinched in a guarded expression that Draco knew well. The other witch made her nervous.

But Pansy shrugged. "Draco is family, even when he stopped acting like it." Her gaze cut to his, burning with accusation before it softened. "And that makes you family by extension. Besides, if Euan likes you, then you can't be too bad." 

Hermione's grin was both relieved and warm. "Speaking of Merrythought—it makes sense, why he's so sharp all the time.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pansy deflected, but Draco didn’t miss the approving nod she shot his way.

Despite the levity in the room, Pansy's next words shattered the mood. "We ought to take a seat; there's a lot to go over before the media briefing."

Draco's stomach dropped. He'd known it was coming, but having to face the wizarding world as himself for the first time in over a decade was... not exactly his idea of a good time. “Pansy, can’t this wait?” He fidgeted in his seat, familiar fear lodging in his throat at the thought of facing a sea of reporters intent on eviscerating him before the wizarding world.

Her expression slipped back into the stern, no-nonsense solicitor she was when she had reunited with Draco just days earlier. "Let me rephrase, then. It's non-negotiable. The wizarding world expects a joint statement from you and Granger confirming the safe recovery of the Ainsley... Granger? No, Malfoy? Whatever surname you're choosing to give the children. Elara and Archer," she finally settled on with a decisive nod.

“We’ll have their names legally changed to Granger-Malfoy; I’ve already arranged to get the necessary paperwork from Kingsley,” Hermione interrupted, clasping his hand in hers. She barely faltered as she glanced back at him. “I also took the liberty of having Kingsley arrange for the press to arrive in”—she checked the clock hanging above Kingsley’s desk—”approximately ten minutes.” 

Draco was sure his heart was going to fall out of his arse. “ _Ten minutes?_ That’s barely enough time to talk through what we’re going to say and—”

“We’ll be honest,” Hermione interrupted him, her gaze fierce on his, “and tell them why we did what we did. You didn’t have any part in the Death Eater uprisings, and Kingsley and Merrythought will corroborate that. They can’t very well lambaste you when you’ve got two of the highest-ranking Ministry officials vouching for you.”

Pansy nodded along with Granger. “Granger’s right. The more honest you are, the less you’ll have to worry about tripping up on anything. They’re already sympathetic to you two as parents whose children were kidnapped. Lean into that, and explain why you left when you did.” 

Draco blinked slowly, trying to determine when Pansy had become wholly on Hermione’s side. “But they’re going to—”

“Some of them will push you to address exactly what happened during the war. Don’t let them push you back into that space—the Ministry has found you innocent, and that’s the end of it. As we speak, we’ve got the Quibbler publishing an article with verifiable quotes from the Auror Department and the Minister’s office. With Harry Potter’s seal of approval and the already widely-known fact that he had planned to testify for you before the Ministry, they can’t go after you without good reason, which they won’t be able to find.” 

The clock on the wall ticked as his head spun, and Hermione stood. “Well, we’ve got just enough time to make it to the Atrium. Parkinson, can we talk and walk?” 

“After you.” Pansy flourished her hand in front of her, gesturing her towards the door. To Draco, she leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know how you got that witch, but she’s much better in adulthood than at Hogwarts. Keep her around, yeah? I think we’d make good friends.” 

“Merlin help me,” Draco muttered. He’d have whiplash from the conversation if he wasn’t careful.

As they walked, the children careening down the hall before them under Hermione’s watchful eye, Pansy talked. “We’ll have Hermione lead with a quick thank you to the Auror Department and Ministry for their hard work in helping you locate the children—yes, even though it was mostly Granger’s work that found them.” Pansy waved away Draco’s protests.

“Then, Draco, you’ll address the reporters. Keep it brief but honest. Let them know that you’ll make sure to provide a comment on your past at a later time, but you’d like to focus on the children and healing your family at this time.” Pansy kept going, making notes of what he should say and what he should avoid, and before he knew it, the clicking of cameras echoed down the wide hall from the Atrium just beyond, Kingsley’s unintelligible baritone interrupting the clamour. 

Pansy paused, spinning Hermione towards her, and ran a quick wand over her blouse to smooth out the wrinkles, much to Hermione’s irritation. “Sorry, Granger. There’s a science to media appearances; we want you to look a little ragged, but not at the expense of appearing put together. You can make it up to me by helping me dismantle the archaic system later. Now go.”

With a careful nudge and a gape from Hermione, his wife marched out onto the stage, children close behind her.

Draco watched Hermione speak to the reporters from the hall, poised and concise as she explained the circumstances to them. Flashbulbs blinked before them. A sea of reporters seemed to fill the Ministry Atrium despite that he could count their number on one hand. Perhaps it was the nerves, but his vision blurred as he stared out over them, sweat pricking the back of his neck.

He wasn't sure he could do this—not when he was sure they’d all look at him as though he were a bug beneath a magnifying glass.

But Hermione was there, squeezing his hand and grounding him, and he took a deep breath, pecked her on the cheek, and crossed the floor to the microphone.

"Good afternoon. I’d like to thank you again for coming." His voice echoed through the room from the _Sonorous_ cast on the microphone. Briefly, he wondered what it sounded like on the tellies that had become so commonplace in magical homes over the years, but it was a passing fancy he couldn't indulge in. "As Hermione has already said, we would like to thank the Ministry especially for the mobilisation of the Auror Department to help us track down the individual responsible for the events of the last five days." 

In the momentary silence after his statement, the reporters blinked back at him, and then clamour erupted.

"Malfoy, why aren't you in Azkaban?"

"What do you have to say for the uprisings that have been reported through the Wizarding World?"

"What has your role been in all of this?"

"Did you Imperius Hermione Granger?" 

"Do your children know that you're a Death Eater?"

The questions overlapped one another, each more accusatory than the last, and Draco couldn't get a word in edgewise. Disgust with himself wrapped a thick knot of emotion around his throat, and for just a moment, he entertained the appeal of running from the microphones and back into the shadows of the atrium. 

But Hermione's steady presence at his back steeled him, and he cleared his throat, waiting for the din to quiet. 

Finally, after several excruciating moments of shouting, the reporters quieted, near identical looks of disgust and fascination on their faces. 

He cleared his throat again. "The Granger-Malfoy children are safe, as you saw," he began, latching onto the easiest answer to the questions. “I did not Imperius Hermione. She fell in love with me as another man, and I with her, and we’ve a lifetime of navigating the nuances of this new reality together. We’d appreciate your patience as we determine what this means for our family.” Pansy’s advice echoed in his head as he tacked on, “I promise answers in due time, but right now we’d like to heal from the events of the past few days as a family.”

A small, mousy girl with coke-bottle glasses tentatively raised her hand. The cover of her notepad was familiar, just the curve of a Q peeking out from behind her shaking hands. When Draco gestured to her, she nearly squealed. "Mister Malfoy, thank you. Eunice Fernsby with _The Quibbler_. Can you explain why you went into the Muggle world instead of retreating to another continent? Wizarding communities are largely insular; I doubt anyone would have recognised you."

Draco nodded, gripping the stand tightly when Pansy gestured for him to answer from the shadows. "Of course. After the war... my mother and I needed out, and we were offered an opportunity to disappear. To the magical world, we'd be considered good as dead." 

The witch nodded, her Quick Quotes Quill flying along the page. "But why Muggle?"

"It was easier that way, even if it was the hardest thing I've ever experienced—had ever experienced until recently," he amended. "In the Muggle world, you don't matter. My name didn't matter to anyone—I had no past there. At least not one of consequence. And so we began again. We didn’t know at the time that it was by design of the witch that helped us escape, but as Minister Shacklebolt has likely already explained, the issue has been resolved and the witch responsible has been taken into custody." 

"Do you regret it?" the witch asked, chewing on her lip as sympathy shone in her eyes. 

Draco thought for a moment, but the answer wasn't a difficult one. "Not at all. Do I regret that I lied to my family for years? That I do, yes. But I don't regret leaving a world that failed to see past the binary it had broken us down into already—Death Eaters and their sympathisers and those who weren't." 

Another woman scoffed behind her, and Draco lifted his head to peer at her. She was older, but her eyes were sharp. "Ma'am?"

She bristled at the address, but lifted her quill anyway, squaring her shoulders. "Azalea Brown. Perhaps you knew my daughter, Lavender?"

Draco froze, staring down at the woman. He could see Lavender in her, the waves that cascaded down her shoulders and the fine lines of years of laughter. The pain, too, in her gaze was familiar. "I remember Lavender." Her prone body, pinned beneath the werewolf who had killed her, flashed through his mind. "I'm incredibly sorry for your loss. I wish I had done more—" His voice broke. 

"Why Granger? She's one of the most prominent figures out of the second wizarding war," Mrs. Brown asked, her gaze sharp as she stared at Draco. "Was she your ticket to redemption?"

Shame flared through him, and Hermione stirred at his side, but he stopped her with a squeeze of her hand. "Hermione is—she has been the best part of all of this... for a very long time. Who I was before the war wasn't permitted to speak to the girl who I wanted to learn so badly. It was serendipitous of us to meet in the Muggle world, and poor judgement of me to begin a relationship with her under subterfuge, but I wouldn't take it back." 

The woman stepped forward, her mouth open as though she was about to question again, but Pansy marched out of the shadows and stepped up to the microphone. "Thank you all for your time today. As the Malfoys have requested, they’ll be taking a few weeks from the media to begin healing from the terrible ordeal they’ve been put through. They appreciate your understanding,” she said, ushering Hermione and Draco towards the hall. “To the Apparition point. Don’t stop or they’ll corner you. When you leave, I’ll handle the rest of their questions.” 

The reporters all tittered among themselves, jotting notes as they tried to follow them down the hall, but Kingsley stepped in front of them, barring the path with Pansy. 

Flashbulbs and shouted questions followed them out of the Atrium. They didn’t stop until they reached the Apparition point, guarded by several Aurors Draco didn’t recognise, and Hermione dragged him towards her, his heart pounding in his ears as they gathered Elara and Archer to them.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice coloured with concern. 

Draco shook, but he took her into his arms, squeezing her tight to him. "I'm okay," he whispered, though the shake to his voice belied the reassurance. "I'll _be_ okay," he corrected. 

He could tell that Hermione didn't believe him, but she leaned up and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "The worst of it's over now. Let’s go home."

It was the best suggestion of the day and Draco lifted Elara into his arms, carefully squeezed them together, and envisioned the cottage. With Elara on his hip and Hermione's hand in his own, Draco Apparated his family home.

* * *

Hermione wobbled on the cobblestones when they landed in the shadows of a building just down the street from theirs at a temporary Apparition point the Aurors had established. 

"The house is in manageable shape; it shouldn't take much work to renovate at this point," an aristocratic voice said as soon as they landed, and Draco whirled.

“Mother!” Hermione could hear the relief in his tone, and he swept towards her, all pretenses of dignity discarded in favour of hugging her. 

“You survived then?” 

Hermione turned towards the other figure waiting for them, to whom Narcissa had been speaking, a grin crossing her face at the familiar voice. 

Harry leaned against the wall, his wand held limply between his fingertips. He accepted her hug readily, a grin stretching across his face. “Good to see you too, ‘Mione,” he muttered, voice muffled by her hair. When he pulled back, his gaze cut critically to Draco. “Malfoy.”

Draco’s response was equally curt. “Potter.” 

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. She’d expected the reception between the two of them, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it. “The both of you had better get over this quickly considering you’ll be seeing a lot of each other. It’s not negotiable,” she added, crossing her arms over her chest.

Draco was the first to break, a fact that was not lost on Hermione. “Look, Potter, I think we can both agree that there are bigger things to worry about than childhood rivalry.”

With a sniff, Harry accepted Draco’s outstretched hand. “I’m not happy that you lied to her for so long. Keep in mind that I’ll always be on her side.” After another extended silence, Harry stepped back, offering his crooked smile. “Get home. You guys deserve the rest; Cho made casserole so you wouldn’t have to worry about dinner.”

Gratitude warmed Hermione through, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, Harry. You’re the best.”

He waved her away and they took off down the path, the children trailing behind when Harry called after them. “Hey, Malfoy!”

Draco stiffened but turned, his expression wary. “Yeah?”

“Weekly Quidditch next weekend. Now that I know you’re a wizard and won’t be daft on a broom, why don’t you come? Starts at six.” 

Before either of them could respond, Harry Disapparated with a pop, and a tiny smile touched Draco’s lips.

Perhaps they’d be fine after all.

The rest of the walk passed in relative silence save for the children’s chatter, Draco’s hand clasped tightly in hers as Hermione marvelled at the knowledge that they were home, all together and everyone safe, for the first time since this nightmare had started.

The peace the knowledge brought her was shattered, though, when they rounded the path to the front of the cottage. 

The front door stood open just a crack, warm air whistling through the opening.

Immediately, she dropped into a defensive stance, whipping her wand out and positioning it between herself and Draco, who was still much slower on the draw. 

"Should we send a Patronus to—" Draco started, but Hermione took off, fury fueling her.

Without a second thought, Hermione bounded up the steps and nudged the door open, firing off a successive round of shielding charms and stunners at a shadowy figure on the far side of the kitchen island.

"Oi! What in Merlin's name—?!" The figure ducked behind the cabinets, curses flying from lips in a familiar baritone. 

Hermione froze, wand still trained on the cabinet that bore a singed hole clear through the wood. After a moment of silence, she called, "Throw your wand out and come out with your hands up." 

"What—'Mione, are you serious?" Belatedly, a willow wand clattered between them, and Hermione spied a shock of ginger hair through the singed china in the cabinet. "Not exactly the warm welcome I was expecting," Ron grumbled, crab-walking out from behind the island. 

The tension fell from her shoulders, and Hermione offered a disbelieving laugh and half-hearted shrug. "Shouldn't be showing up in my house uninvited, Ronald." 

"Fucking Weasleys," Draco muttered, shouldering into the house and lowering Elara to the floor, Archer in his wake. “You’re lucky it wasn’t me that came through the door first. I’d have made sure the hexes hit first and asked questions later.” 

“Draco,” Hermione hissed, eyes wide as Archer and Elara both laughed at the expletive. “Not in front of the kids.” 

Draco didn’t offer anything but a laugh at the admonishment.

“Why don’t you and Elara go play?” Hermione asked, crouching next to Archer. “Mummy and Daddy need to catch up with Uncle Ron, okay?” 

Archer nodded, his gaze carefully tracking between Hermione and Draco. “Okay.” 

Hermione nuzzled her face in Elara's hair, basking in the warmth of her daughter's touch, the smell of her hair. 

"I missed you, Mummy," Elara whispered, her hands gripping the back of her jacket fiercely. 

"Oh, I missed you too, my dear." A sob nearly cut off her response, and she coughed to cover it. "What have you been doing the last few days?" 

Elara smiled, bouncing excitedly. "Aunty Delphi showed me how to make my magic work! Instead of getting angry and just letting it"—she gestured wildly outward, a grin splitting her features—"explode out of me."

Something like sorrow filtered through Hermione. "Did she, now? And how did she do that?"

Sobering, Elara lowered her voice to a whisper. "Aunty Delphi told me that she didn't remember her mummy. She said to focus on what it feels like when you hug me—when I'm safe and warm. Then, when I feel safe, I can decide what to do with the magic." 

Sympathy coursed through Hermione. Delphini had never known a mother's love, and even if Bellatrix _had_ survived, she likely wouldn't have known it anyway. Her heart broke a little bit more for the strange woman. "And did that help?"

Elara nodded seriously. "It's like a warm blanket now. I only use it when I need it." 

Tears broke from Hermione's eyes as she pulled her daughter into her side. "I'm glad it works."

"Me too." Elara pulled away, her tiny lips pinched into a frown. "Will we ever see Aunty Delphi again, Mummy?" 

"I don't know, dear." Hermione sighed, smoothing her hair back as she peered between Archer and Elara. "I know Delphini didn't hurt you, but she still took you from home without Mummy and Daddy's permission, which was a very bad thing to do." 

Archer nodded, his gaze glued to the floor. "Will I—" his voice broke off, and he looked away. "Will I still get to go to Hogwarts?"

The question startled a laugh out of Hermione, and she cupped his cheek, trying to bring his gaze to hers. “Of course, my love. Why wouldn't you?"

He refused to look at her. "You said before Mister Merrythought and Kingsley came to see us that you wouldn't let us go if we were bad."

"Oh, sweet boy." Hermione curled his frame into her, smoothing his hair soothingly. "You get to go to Hogwarts. I promise. In fact," she pulled away, surveying him, "why don't you take Elara upstairs to play for a while? When Mum and Dad are done with the Aurors, we'll take you to Diagon Alley and let you pick out any creature you want to take to school with you—as long as it's Hogwarts approved. How does that sound?"

A beam lit his face. "Even a cat? Like Cleo?"

"Even a cat," she agreed, turning him towards the stairs. "Go on, now." Archer grasped Elara's hand, pulling her behind him. "And no broom in the house!" Hermione reminded them.

Ron glanced suspiciously between Hermione and Draco. "Merlin, it's true then. I saw the papers when I was on the way back from visiting Charlie for dragon scales for the joke shop, but I was sure it was just Skeeter grasping at straws." He blinked for several long, slow moments as though Draco would disappear before he opened his eyes. 

"It's true. I expect you guys to make nice," Hermione said crisply, slipping her wand back into her pocket as Archer ran forward to high-five his godfather. "The both of you," she added with an arched brow at Draco.

Ron worked his jaw for a few more moments before nodding. "Well, as long as he makes you happy—and I know he does, given—" he gestured vaguely towards where the children had exited. 

To add insult to injury, Draco pressed a kiss to Hermione's cheek. "She's sure. We're working through it." 

Screwing his face up, Ron studied the photographs on the mantle to hide the scrunch of his nose. "Gonna need a lot of Firewhisky to burn _that_ image out of my head." 

Hermione chose to ignore him, flopping onto the couch instead as Draco settled beside her. "Why are you here anyway? I thought you were out of the country for the foreseeable future. You and Gabrielle off gallivanting the countryside looking for ingredients for George and the shop." 

"We were," Ron allowed, taking the seat opposite them. "But we had happy news and wanted to share it. I just didn't expect to come back to society and find it all up in arms about my best friend marrying Hogwarts’ least favourite ferret."

Draco scoffed beside her, but Hermione nudged him. 

A photograph, folded several times over, floated towards her and settled into her lap. She picked it up, eyeing the worn edges with a dubious lift of her brow.

"Well, go on, then," Ron prompted, leaning forwards onto the seat. He wrung his hands together, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched her.

Hermione knew that nervous tick, and with a knot in her throat, she unfolded the image.

Staring back at her was a mostly black image with a white, quarter-sized circle in the midst of it. Tears sprung to her eyes as she jerked her gaze back up at him. "Is it—"

Ron nodded, a brilliant smile breaking across his features. "Six weeks now," he said. "We found out shortly after we found the ingredient George needed for the kid-friendly giggle water. A local seer in Romania pulled Gabrielle into her shop to tell her all about it. I didn’t believe her, so we went to a Muggle doctor, and, well—it’s true.” 

Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Ron, I'm so happy for you both! How is Gabrielle?" 

"Nauseous," Ron deadpanned, shaking his head. "But excited. She's spending the day with Mum so I could come check in with you guys and see what all the fuss was about. Seems like we've both got something to celebrate." He sheepishly cut his gaze to Malfoy. 

"Oh, this is wonderful news!" Hermione handed the photo off to Draco, who stared at it with a funny half-smile on his face. "And does Harry know?" 

Ron grimaced. "Not yet—figured I ought to tell you first so you could have some time to get used to being a godmother all over again." Down the hall, they could hear the kids chattering and something fell to the floor, the tinkling of shattered glass following it. "How are they taking it?"

"About as well as can be expected," Draco answered, pushing to his feet. "I'll go take care of whatever that was." He started down the hall towards the children, but paused when he reached Ron's chair, staring down at his former enemy. "Congrats, Weasley. If you need anything—" With what appeared to be great effort, Draco extended his hand. 

Hermione froze, watching the interaction with something like hope blooming in her chest.

Even Ron appeared taken aback as he stared at the hand before him with shock. Belatedly, he stood, accepting Draco's hand and giving it a singular firm shake. "Thanks, Malfoy. And—" He paused, blowing a gust of air out from his puffed cheeks. "You've done a good job with them so far, but... just keep taking care of them, yeah?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, biting back another retort that she was _perfectly capable_ of protecting herself, but Draco nodded, cutting his gaze back to Hermione. "I've got them. They're the most important things in the world to me." 

"Good." Ron dropped his hand, offering the other wizard a cheeky grin. "Cause you'll have to answer to me if you don't."

Hermione groaned as Draco walked away muttering to himself. "Fat chance, Weaselbee." 

_"She's_ right here, and _she_ can take care of herself," she reminded both men, though her heart was lighter for the positive interaction between two of the most important people in her life.

Draco was still muttering to himself when he ducked into the room with the children.

Hermione studied Ron across the table as he smiled tenderly down at the ultrasound photo. "I'm happy for you, Ron. You get to start that family you've always wanted."

"Yeah," he said, glancing up at her. "We almost gave up—thought about adopting. Still will, most likely." 

Hermione nodded. "There's lots of little witches and wizards out there that need families."

Ron's expression was pensive. "Yeah. I can't help but think about Harry sometimes. My mum and dad were his only family for so long—given the way the Dursleys treated him. No kid deserves that. And we're still not sure how the pregnancy will affect Gabrielle, so... we're cautiously optimistic, but we've already applied to adopt one of the children at St Mungo’s." 

Hermione started, but she covered her surprise by clapping her hands. "That's wonderful news! When will you know the process?"

Grimacing, Ron ran a hand over his face. "We start with a home study—the Ministry has adopted some Muggle practices so it's a much more formal process than it once was according to our Ministry-appointed advocate." 

Hermione frowned. "But you don't have a—" 

"A house? Well, that's another reason I stopped by," Ron said slowly. His gaze flickered to hers before trailing towards the door as though he was contemplating running.

"You're not—did you buy a house?" Hermione asked, her mind flying through the reasons he would be so sheepish with her.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Ron tried again. "Well, not _technically_. The Ministry still has to approve it." 

Hermione tried to follow his line of thought. 

"Well, you remember how the Ministry seized all the assets of those who were convicted for helping the Death Eaters years ago, yeah?" 

She nodded.

"So I haven't _technically_ seen Harry for longer than a few minutes, but he was talking with Narcissa when I did, and he did mention that you were potentially going to be moving," Ron started, drawling his words slowly. He refused to look right at her, instead affixing his gaze somewhere over her left shoulder and slightly above her ear.

Incredulity unfurled in her. "Is Harry trying to move you into _my_ house?!" 

Ron reddened. "Well, I mean it wouldn't _technically_ be your house anymore if—"

"Ronald Weasley, if you say technically like that one more time—" Hermione started, levelling him with a glare. "Besides, just where do you think we'll go if you and Gabrielle move in here? Harry's house?"

"No, of course not!" Ron retorted, his blush growing deeper. "Harry mentioned that he's working with Narcissa to petition the Ministry to restore Malfoy Manor to Malfoy and his mother. Apparently the bloke has friends that continued Malfoy Enterprises in the shadows, so he's got quite the sum of wealth stowed away, and you both would be quite well off. Not that you're not doing well already," Ron stammered, floundering. "I just mean that—"

"Weasley, stop talking, for Merlin's sake," Draco interrupted, his voice floating over her shoulder as he re-entered the room. 

"Did you know?" Hermione squawked, defaulting to the betrayal that reared its ugly head whenever confronted with the fallout of Draco's deception. The tone clearly hit home in Draco's flinch, and she tried again, softening her voice. "Did you have any idea that Harry and your mother—"

"None," Draco responded. His voice had taken on the pitch it often did when he was trying to mask his emotions, his face carefully blank. "I haven't spoken to Potter—other than a few minutes ago—since the kids— " Vague gestures seemed to be the nonverbal cue of the day, and he let the sentence hang unfinished. 

Slightly assuaged, Hermione settled back against the sofa as though all the wind had been taken out of her sails. "So we're just to—what? Uproot the children and move into the home that you grew up in? It was a mess when we last visited!" Images of the destroyed table flickered through her mind, quickly chased by the book-filled library that had been so tempting upon their first visit.

"Not necessarily," Draco said slowly. "I assume the Ministry will have stipulations for moving—with all the wards dismantled, they'd be required to go through the home to rid it of any remaining dark artefacts. And we'd want those gone before we moved the children in."

"Never mind the dark artefacts—Bellatrix tortured me in the drawing room," Hermione retorted, immediately regretting the flippancy of her statement when Draco seemed to shrink into himself. She mentally added the incident to the list of things they’d work through with the mind healer they’d hire.

After a moment, he conceded, "I'm sure we could arrange for renovations. Weaselbee and his wife could wait a while to move in here—it would be a fresh start for all of us, and the children would have access to their birthright. We could teach them about where they came from... make sure they won't repeat the past."

Hermione was tempted to object, but she bit her tongue. It was important to Draco to teach them about the moral failings of his family's past—even if she didn't think the children would ever fall peril to it, she could see that he needed it.

" _If_ —and this is a very strong if, mind you—I was to entertain this, then how do we even explain it to the kids? This is the only home they've ever known," she fretted, smoothing her hand over the sofa. 

The walls of this home were where they'd grown together as a family. Archer and Elara's height ticks still marred the doorframe of the playroom. A sear mark denoted Archer's first bout of accidental magic when she'd taken away his Demiguise toy for playing too roughly with it. The steps outside had been the site of many morning cups of coffee and shared dreams with Draco—it was hard to give that up.

Draco settled beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "The kids will understand—we'll be together, and that's what matters." He cracked a grin. "And I don't think Archer will mind too much if I promise him that we can turn Father's old sentient plant field into a Quidditch pitch." 

"My very own Quidditch pitch?!" Archer cried, zooming into the room with twin fist pumps. "Mum, can we _please_?" 

Hermione turned, peering down the hallway. Elara peered around the doorframe, a cautious smile on her lips. "What do you think, Elara?" 

A brilliant smile lifted her lips. "I think I'd like to visit the rose garden that I dream about sometimes.

Draco motioned her forwards. "I imagine Grandmother Cissy would be delighted to show you her famous rose garden—maybe you've got her magic touch for herbology along with her famous Black Seer lineage." 

Elara turned big eyes on her mother, little lip pushed out in a pout. "Please, Mummy?"

Hermione's shoulders fell, aghast at being teamed up on by both her children, her husband, _and_ one of her dearest friends. "Well, I suppose it's four against one. But it all depends on what Kingsley has to say about it. So don't get your hopes up." 

Chortling, Ron said, "I don't think Kings will be too hard to convince, 'Mione. Not when it’s the three of us asking."

Hermione huffed, but she allowed the conversation to drop, settling into the familiarity of an evening with her family.

Even as everything changed around them, Hermione felt a greater sense of peace than she had in years. 

They were okay. And their family was growing and changing, learning new ways of being. 

That had always been her favourite part of magic: the endless possibilities it presented, and perhaps she’d lost that as the years progressed. Control had been important to her for so long, until it had been wrenched from her fingertips.

Now, just like her work with art, she could see the beauty of it in the micro. All the minuscule changes hidden within the life-altering shifts of the past week, every minute difference, added up to an outcome she’d never expected, but one she’d needed all the same.

The adaptations that loomed before them were frightening, and part of her wasn’t sure how they’d handle it all together, but with Draco’s arm draped over her shoulder, the children chattering to their Uncle Ron and filling him on everything he’d missed in his months away, Hermione welcomed whatever would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii sorry this is late! I got distracted by Thanksgiving and Christmas decorating that I totally forgot to post this! As always, I want to thank you my lovely alpha/beta team for all their work on this story and for not strangling me when my brain died and writing went to the wayside lol and thank you all for reading this! It's been a fun ride and I'm so glad to have you all with me on this story :) Just the epilogue to go and it'll be up as usual on Thursday (I promise; I set a reminder and everything lol)


	13. Epilogue

**Chapter 13 - Epilogue**

Platform 9 3/4 was teeming with parents and children alike, each of them darting towards the train with varying shrieks of joy. Somewhere in the mix, Hermione knew Albus was parting with Harry, but she and Draco had agreed to meet up with Cho and Harry at the Leaky later.

Draco needed their last moments with Archer before he left for Hogwarts without having even more eyes on them with Harry Potter in their midst. 

As it was, Archer had insisted he could pack his own trunk, but, as Hermione had expected, he’d packed far more than he’d need, so the cart was piled high with school books that she’d charm away before he boarded the train. He'd nearly forgotten his cauldron at home, and so Hermione had carefully balanced it on top. The whole spectacle was ridiculous, but it still made her smile.

Their little boy, off to Hogwarts.

As it was, he'd already changed into his uniform despite Hermione's reassurance that there'd be plenty of time to on the train. Her heart squeezed when she stared down at the little blank spot that would soon be filled with his house crest. 

Draco knelt before him, his face split between pride and sorrow. Archer had only just begun to know Draco for who he  _ really _ was, and now he was set to go to Hogwarts.

Hermione's heart twinged in sympathy for him.

"You be good, okay?" Draco started, his voice pinched despite the smile he affixed to his face. "And owl us when you get your house, yeah?"

Archer smiled up at Draco. "I promise, Dad." 

It hadn't taken long for Archer to take to Draco—not when he proved to be the same father he'd always been. There were days when he shied away from Draco, but it had gotten better over time. Archer loved larger than himself—a trait he’d inherited from Draco, no less—so it hadn’t surprised her at all, though she still caught Draco warring with awe whenever Archer hugged him openly. 

Elara, of course, had never shown any indication that she felt otherwise towards Draco. 

Hermione knelt beside Draco, opening her arms wide for Archer. Without preamble, the little wizard thrust himself into her hold. "You'll tell Uncle Neville that he needs to get better about returning our owls?" 

"I'll tell him, Mum. Should I wait until before or after Herbology? Or maybe during. His cheeks always turn a funny purple colour when he's embarrassed." Archer pulled away, sharing a cheeky smile with Draco.

"You'll do no such thing." Draco chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "Wait until after class, and tell him that he's expected to visit with the family over the winter hols. He can't keep the girls all to himself in the castle. They've got to see their godmother at some point." 

Archer mumbled his agreement, turning to Hermione. “I’ll be home for the Christmas hols.” His eyes flickered to the ground. “Will you write?”

Throat choked with emotional, she nodded, fighting the tears that pricked at her eyes. “Of course. Every day if you wouldn’t get tired of me.” Archer stuck his tongue out at her, and Hermione pulled him into a hug. “Once a week. I’ll miss you.” 

“I’ll miss you too, Mum,” Archer said, squeezing her. Behind him, the train whistled, and he pulled away, eyes wide. “I have to go!” 

Draco stifled his laughter, and they all said their goodbyes, Archer watching as Hermione repacked his suitcase. A final round of hugs punctuated their goodbye, and then he was off.

His little figure dragged his trunk through the train before he found Albus’ carriage. Without waiting to stow the trunk overhead, he lunged for the window, throwing it open and thrusting his upper body out the window with a frantic wave as the train began to move. “Bye, Mum! Bye, Dad!” 

Draco pulled her into him, and they both raised their hands, waving in return. Even if she wanted to shout, Hermione wouldn’t have been able to get a sound out around the knot in her throat.

Tucked into Draco's side, Hermione watched the train as it pulled away from the station, Archer's little figure growing smaller and smaller even as his waving grew frantic. 

"Granger, we've got to go. Harry’s waiting for us," Draco urged, pressing a kiss to her temple. Elara nuzzled into her legs, offering sympathy in an effort to hide her own tears. 

"Just a minute more," Hermione whispered, carefully wiping away tears.

It felt like an ending as much as a beginning, watching her son board the train and disappear into a new adventure that she was no stranger to. Perhaps it was all the changes over the last weeks—the children's disappearance, Draco's revelation, sending Archer away to Hogwarts to grow into his magic—but a large part of Hermione felt as though it had climbed onto the Hogwarts Express with Archer and left her behind. 

"He'll be okay, love," Draco murmerred, his grasp tightening around her waist. "He'll owl as soon as he gets to his common room tonight; you know how responsible he is. Gets it from you." He nudged her with his hip.

"Do you think it'll get easier?" Herminoe asked, carefully wiping away the tear that trailed down her cheek once they walked towards the platform exit. 

Draco frowned, sweeping Elara into his arms as they walked. "I don't expect so, no. But we raised him well. He'll be great at Hogwarts." 

"I know." Hermione worried the hem of her shirt, glancing back in hopes that she might catch one more final plume of smoke from the long-departed train. "I just worry." 

Squeezing her again, Draco said, "It'll be all right. We have an in with Neville—if Archer gets out of hand, I'm sure you'll get an owl about it."

"Oh, it's not Archer I'm worried about," Hermione laughed, nudging his hip with hers. "It's Albus' influence on Archer. You know how he worships Harry. Albus is about as close to Harry as Archer can get without the real deal." 

Draco groaned. "Don't even remind me—my own son, forsaking me for the bloody Boy Who Lived." 

"Oh please, you know how much he admires you," Hermione tutted.

* * *

**Two years later**

Doors clanged close behind Draco. The room he’d been escorted to was drafty and cold, the windowless walls adding to the chilly ambiance. Even without the dementors, he didn’t envy anyone imprisoned there.

He kept his thoughts away from his father through sheer will alone.

With far more grace than he felt with his nerves on end, he settled into one of the old metal chairs flanking either side of the singular table in the middle of the room, depositing a package at his side. On the opposite side of the small room, the wall glimmered, revealing the outline of a door. A guard and shackled inmate emerged just moments later.

“Mister Malfoy.” The guard dipped his head, casual but guarded. “Should I—” He gestured towards the cuffs of magic on Delphini’s wrists. 

“Please do. I trust that the warding will be sufficient to manage her magic. I won’t be long,” Draco said, adjusting his tie.

It was the same song and dance as usual. The guard released the magic binding her and escorted Delphini to the chair. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, Malfoy. Make it quick.”

He ducked his head. “Thank you.” 

They allowed the guard to depart and the door to disappear before either of them spoke.

“It’s good to see you,” Delphini said. Worn Azkaban robes hung from her figure and clashed horribly with her pale skin, and her curly hair appeared clean but unbrushed, tangled together at the ends. She did, however, look less gaunt than she had outside Lestrange Manor. “I’m sorry I didn’t get all dressed up for you.”

Her eyes shined when she spoke. "Thank you for seeing me, Draco."

Draco nodded, wrapping his knuckles on the tabletop as he studied her. "It's been long enough that I thought you might like a visitor, and I’ve appreciated our correspondence over the last few months. As I’m sure you’re aware, your help has been invaluable with the… healing process. I tried to convince Hermione, but—" 

"That's kind of you but unnecessary," Delphini answered, an absent smile on her face as she watched him. "Your mother visits frequently, which staves off some of the loneliness." 

Draco knew that. Narcissa had apologized time and again for her visits to the witch that had kidnapped Elara and Archer, but some small part of him understood--Delphini was the only connection Narcissa had to a sister who she had loved and whose loss she mourned—the loss of the woman  _ before  _ Voldemort had manipulated her deepest desires. Before she'd become mad. He didn't begrudge Narcissa the connection. "I'm glad you haven't been entirely alone. And the mind healer?" 

It was one of the few concessions Hermione had fought to get the witch upon her incarceration. Time travel was difficult, and to see all that Delphini had... Hermione hadn’t been able to imagine it had been easy. After days of discussing the situation with his wife, Draco had personally interceded on the Ministry’s search for a therapist and recommended the one he shared with Hermione. 

After all, Delphini had admitted to her own precarious hold on sanity when they had rescued the children, and in whatever twist of fate, it had brought him a new chance with Hermione and the children—without hiding.

He figured he owed her a modicum of understanding. 

Delphini smiled, lighting up for the first time since Draco entered the room. "Doctor Brenner is a wonderful friend." She appeared to choose her words carefully, fingers tapping on her knees. "He's helped me work through many of the delusions that I struggled to deal with initially—the circumstances which drove me to visit the past in the first place. He’s confident that I can be rehabilitated and will petition for my release upon the end of my treatment.”

Draco nodded. Kingsley had told him as much, but he was glad that the information had been relayed to Delphini. “And you’re… doing well?”

The smile that Delphini cracked didn’t quite reach her eyes. “As well as can be expected. Doctor Brenner doesn’t require medication, although it’s an option if I’d like to take it. We’ve discussed my motivations and how they landed me here, which was illuminating.” 

“He pulls no punches, that’s for sure,” Draco commiserated. After a beat, he cleared his throat. “Look, I’m glad that you’re getting the help you need. And, for what it’s worth, I’m glad it all worked out the way it did in the long run.”

Delphini laughed, the sound so similar to her mother’s that the hair on his arms stood at attention. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To be grateful for the cage in which you find yourself?” 

“It is,” he agreed. Without that cage, he wouldn’t have found Granger. “But I came here for a reason—other than to see how you were doing.”

“I assumed as much,” Delphini answered, eyeing the wrapped parcel that he’d placed between them. “May I?” 

Dipping his head, Draco slid the package across the table. 

“I understand that it’s a bit unconventional, given everything going on, but I thought you might like a copy.” Draco shifted in his seat, resisting the urge to adjust his tie again. Suddenly, the air in the room was oppressive, and a cold sweat broke out, chilling his skin. “And it’s probably a bit presumptuous of me that you would even  _ want  _ a copy, and it took a lot of convincing to even get the guards to allow me to give it to you, but—” 

“Of course I want a copy,” she tsked, a genuine smile softening her features. From within the package, Delphini pulled a leather-bound book and smoothed her hand over the cover. 

The gold leaf title glittered under the illumination of the bare bulb overhead, and he sucked in a deep breath. It punched him in the gut every time he saw it. 

_ How to Disappear: A Former Death Eater's Confessional _ by Draco Malfoy. Foreword and cover art by Hermione Granger.

He’d been resistant at first. Writing the story of their ordeal felt exploitive, like he was further subjecting his family to public scrutiny that they hadn’t signed up for, but what began as an assignment for their therapy courses soon turned into an outlet he hadn’t known he’d needed.

It had been Hermione’s idea, a way to sift through the complex series of emotions he was left with in the aftermath of the children’s rescue: grief, guilt, sadness, happiness, all of it a volatile cocktail that had left him paralysed of motivation. Sure, he’d taken steps to assume the mantle of the family business, but the book had been different.

It was his. Completely his. Not his father’s before him, not Voldemort’s. It was his story to tell, and it had been freeing in a way nothing else had been.

Delphini looked up at him, hand splayed on the cover. “And it’s all in there?”

“All of it. My Hogwarts years, the war, our escape. We used the letters that you sent and the information you gave my mother in the interviews to write the story.” Draco shifted, uncomfortable at the tears that shone in her gaze. “I hope I did it justice.”

“I’m sure you did. There’s no one else I would rather tell my story,” she said, cracking the cover to flip through the first two pages. 

Draco shrugged, rubbing at the scruff of his beard. “Doctor Brenner said it was helpful—encouraged it, actually. He recommended you might want a copy for your own healing. Besides, Kingsley thinks it will be useful when we petition for your release in the new year.”

Several beats passed before Delphini froze, her gaze darting up to him. “My release?” she whispered. 

“My mother and I petitioned for it earlier this month. She’ll act as your representative in front of the Ministry. If everything goes well—and it should with Doctor Brenner’s testimony that you’re not a danger to society—it’s very likely you’ll be granted release by this time next year,” Draco said, fighting the urge to stand up and pace. “It’s conditional, of course. You’ll be released into Narcissa’s custody first for a period of house arrest, and afterwards you will be monitored by the Ministry.”

Her hands shook as she closed the cover of the book. “But I’ll be free.”

Draco finally offered her a smile. “You’ll be free. You can start over—and you’ll have family.” Hermione had been reluctant, hesitant to let the woman into their unit after she’d put them through such a traumatic week, but in the process of writing the foreword, she’d eventually relented, confessing the sorrow she felt for the other woman. Like their relationship, she’d decided to go forward with a succinct reply: they’d work it out. Like they always did.

Draco had written Kingsley the next day.

Delphini’s eyes fluttered shut, tears leaking from their corners. “Thank you,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “I won’t forget it. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Behind her, the door shimmered and opened, the same guard that had escorted Delphini into the room clearing his throat. “Time’s up, Malfoy. Miss Riddle, you’re to return to your cell.”

She nodded obediently, splaying her hands on the table as the guard approached and charmed the handcuffs back onto her wrists, but her gaze never left Draco’s. “You’ll be in touch?”

“Look for my correspondence. Brenner will be here tomorrow to discuss the particulars. In the meantime, take care of yourself,” Draco said, backing towards the entry door. Just as the witch was about to leave the room, he cleared his throat. “Delphini?”

Pausing, she cast her gaze back over her shoulder and clutched the book to her chest. “Yes?”

“Welcome to the family.”

_ fin _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've reached the end! Because I just finished my own edits on this today and because I'm impatient af, I wanted to go ahead and post it a couple days early. As such, it's not been alpha read or beta read; any mistakes are my own. That said, I wanted to thank my stellar alpha/beta team for their help throughout the rest of this fic: LadyKenz347 and niffizzle for alpha work at various points, In Dreams for betaing, farmulousa for brit-picking, and mcal for cheering on in the initial chapters (and in the comments—I see you and appreciate you!) I'm so glad to have help from such lovely people, and I've enjoyed writing this story. It's not perfect, but I'm really proud of it. Further, thank you all so much for sticking around and reading this little tale when I was super flaky with updates, when a character—cough, Delphini, cough—that is widely disliked was introduced and then attempted to give her a redemption arc, and when things seemed a little dicey. I'm so grateful for all your lovely words, your constructive criticism, and just being able to share a fandom space with you guys. It means the world to me! Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> _Thank you for reading! Updates will be posted every Thursday until completion._


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